


Upon A Promise

by shanewantstobattle, TrappedInSonder



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Closer to show than it is games, Collaboration, Fighting, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Saves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Near Death Experiences, Our boys being boys, Promises, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, So much angst, The Trials, The Witcher - Freeform, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher), Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Trials, Young Ciri, damn magicians, geralt x jaskier - Freeform, in chapter two, trial of grasses, very cute though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanewantstobattle/pseuds/shanewantstobattle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrappedInSonder/pseuds/TrappedInSonder
Summary: “Making promises to a Witcher will only get you killed.”“If that is my penance, so be it. I wish for no mercy if the price that is due is my life. To see you smile. To see you comfortable. Happy among peers who wish you only good fortune. Even if I must see the sight through spectral eyes, I swear to every god above I will see it.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lovelies! Shane here ( over at witchershane ) and tis me, Sonder! We just wanted to thank you guys for reading this amazing collab; we’re so excited to share with you guys all that we have in store for this, and we really hope you stick around! We have a lot in store for you all! Thank you for reading, and as always, leave a comment and say what you think, we always love to read what you guys have to say! 
> 
> (Ps- go show Shane that lovely love you all have! They're the talented mind behind Yen and Geralt after all! It's been an honour to work with them so make sure you go show them some love, you guys! - Sonder)
> 
> Jaskier, Vesemir, Ciri, Lambert and Eskel primarily written by Sonder  
> Geralt and Yennefer primarily written by (the lovely) Shane

“So, what exactly are we doing here?”

Jaskier trudged along the dirt roads, kicking up dust beneath tired feet as the sun bore down on the blue-clad bard. There didn’t seem to be anywhere of interest nearby, no matter how much Jaskier squinted to see into the distance. Though his gaze soon fell upon Geralt once more, studying the other over with a rather disgruntled look. 

“Not that I don’t trust your instincts but I don’t see Novigrad nearing anytime soon.”Geralt, who had been walking beside their horsley companion looked at the other out of his peripheral, the golden gaze of the Witcher pushing the edge of his sight’s visibility. “We’re moving to set up somewhere to stay; unless you’d much rather sleep in the street?”

Words were a low register, a grunt cushioning the words as he looked away from the bard, instead surveying their surroundings, trying to gauge where the best place to stop for the evening would be. “Besides, I don’t think those at the inn were overly fond of either of our presences.”

“On that, we agree. He did look rather menacing right? Nothing compares to you, of course.” He sighed and slipped off his jacket, once he had untangled himself from his lute’s holding case, and rather vigorously shoved the thick cloth into one of the horse’s side pouches, beads of sweat threatening to fall from his temple. “Rather grouchy fellow, really. I would advise you not to take it personally but you never do anyway.” 

Despite Jaskier’s rather chatty nature, Geralt was never one to mirror such a demeanour; if anything, the Witcher was more a laconic type, answering mainly in as few words as needed: if that. For now, he allowed a few bouts of silence to follow the bards’ words, hum rumbling deep within the recess of his chest, like a low thrum of oncoming thunder, blowing across the horizon of his physique.

“Why would I take it personally? If you disliked being around me, you wouldn’t be here; not quite like I’m holding a sword to your throat, Jaskier.” A tut was sharp upon the Witcher’s palate, the grip he held upon the looping leather of Roach’s reins tightening ever so slightly, the sound of leather on leather disrupting the otherwise quiet nature with a scrunch. 

The bard’s baby blue gaze fell upon the other once more, pain striking upon his features momentarily as the other’s words roused a dark memory from the back of his mind. “No, No. You’ve made that perfectly clear in the past. That’s not what I was suggesting.”

He quickly pushed his thoughts aside in favour of the topic at hand, and not the one in his head. “I was simply saying that you should not take the innkeeper's ill-mannered actions personally. Being a witcher and all that.”

A few seconds of silence before the bard’s overused lips would part to speak again. “We’ve never really spoken about this but before I met you and made your life unequivocally better,-”

Forever the humble bard. 

“-Did being looked upon like filth everywhere you travelled not bother you? And don’t you start with that-” He puffed his chest out a little, deepening his voice to have a loose likeness to his companion’s own gruff tones.

“- ‘Witchers don’t feel, I’m emotionless, grr’ act, I know that’s simply not the case.”

Again, another bout of silence. And this time, it wasn’t for the fact the Witcher didn’t have anything in regards to Jaskier’s points. In actuality, it was the opposite of the fact; too much was parading his senses, his mind thinking of the years, the decades spent across the lands. Doing this, doing that. And for what? He was met with hypocrisy, those that wished to - toss a coin - to him, were the same ones who turned, throwing stones at him, casting him away as nothing but a monster, a butcher.

He could hear her voice, so distinctively in the back of his mind. It had faded over the years - it had been so many since the trials, the bumpy ride beforehand as she did nothing but drop him off as if he were nothing more than garbage to be disposed of - but it was rearing in the recess of his mind again.

Again, the grip upon Roach’s reins tightened once more, knuckles blanched beneath the leather softly coddling calloused digits.

Geralt hadn’t even noticed himself the displeased sound that was reverberating form his vocal cords, the thrumming of it against the base of his trachea on its trip up his oesophagus, vibrating at quivering tiers, who - prior to the Witcher’s attention once more filtering back to his own physique - were parted, but now clenched, pursing into a harsh line.

“Nothing is ever the case people want to talk about.” He responded after a moment, the sigh cushioning his words wasn’t one of relief, but one of strife, of the pain clenching his heart.

He swallowed. “Nothing is bothersome if you have to endure it for  
survival. I do what I do,” he paused, giving a grunt as he shook his head, as if a part of him, a part of the ol’ mighty WitcHer Geralt of Rivia, hated himself for it, “To survive.”

Not that he had ever been given a choice to choose otherwise, of course. But he also knew he wasn’t one to sit down the reins and die.

Jaskier, for once, was silent. His face contorted slightly as the other spoke, gaze locked on the other despite the nagging urge to look away during such serious topics. The tips of his eyebrows twitched slightly before gently curling inwards, lips straightening into a line, before gently parting to release a shaky breath past plush tiers. 

This time, it was the bard who would let the silence build between them, and he’d barely even realised he’s stopped moving, acutely aware of how the sunburned at his pale skin and demanding he keep moving. His chest tightened with a familiar strain, forcing his breaths to be few and far between, calloused fingers gently meeting with the palms of his hands to rub in an almost self-comforting motion. As if he was the one who needed comforting here. 

Always the emotionalist. 

Eventually, he willed himself to move, eyes saddening gently. He looked genuinely in pain, like the other’s words had entered every nerve and set them alight with a fire no water could snuff. 

“Geralt…-” The bard began, taking a deep breath between his words. Though his feet did not move. He wanted the other to turn; He wanted his full attention. “- If you...ever...feel like you have to endure such hardships again…”

No, No, what are you even talking about? What exactly is Dandelion going to do about the White Wolf’s struggles? Sing him a lullaby? Manage to annoy him so harshly he forgets those troubles in favour of the troubles the bard forced upon him? 

“Just-...I want you to know you’re not alone, Geralt. Not anymore. That-...if there is anything...Anything that I can do to lessen this tragedy you’ve been forced into then I will do so with no hesitation.” And, though the bard’s voice quivered with emotion, his stubborn gaze had never before been alight with so much passion and determination. 

“I will write you a million songs if I must, and I will sing them across the lands until my throat grows old and weary and I lose my mind. If I must want for nought but to see you complacent, by the gods I will give myself away without a second thought.”

He wasn’t sure where this sudden declaration of support had risen from but every word spoken was true. “You have my word that I will not rest until you have found peace in life, and I will not let you pass from this world until it is so. That is my promise.”

It was almost like Roach had sensed the other pausing, a whinny coming from the mare; it piqued Geralt’s attention - not to mention the whole act of Roach stopping herself - and his booted footfalls ceased as well, the apex of his shoe covered toes scuffing up dirt, the loosely packed earth billowing into the air like a cloud of smoke, not doing anything to hide the Witcher’s stalking form; if anything, it accentuated the male in the growing twilight, the cloud of earth acting as a spotlight upon the rays of light scattering across the land in kaleidoscope lenses.

Geralt turned then, fully turned then, to look at the bard. Shoulders adjusted themselves under an abysmal fabricated cloak, the only think stark against the stage of the fabric was the pendant - the all too infamous wolf baring its jaws - as it swished where it lie against the apex of tone pectorals, snug under layers of fabric, of studded armour. Yet despite that, the pendant reached the Witcher’s barriers, high-tailed through his system and into his heart; becoming all too much of who he was now; the monster everyone has overturned that little boy, full of excitement and wonder, of a child so full of wondrous joy and chestnut hair, sparkling eyes that would rival the sun in its brilliance, one single medal overturned all of that, desaturating him into nothing but: Geralt.

Reins nearly slipped from absentminded fingers as the bard’s words, poetic, yet the only backing tune being the chirps of nature around them, the whispering willows of the trees, swirled between them.

It was a funny thing, truly. Just how laconic the Witcher had become. He could recall moments, partial ones, remnants left from a life that he didn’t feel was his any more, where he’d talk his mother’s ear off, questioning one thing to another.

It was a bittersweet proposition, that the same thing that had stolen everything from him, desaturated his hair: had desaturated everything else, too.

A sigh replaced all those words, all those possible sentences, letters strung up into something new each time, yet had fallen mute, losing the symphony of its concurrence into the world; the only sounds needed from him were that of indication of being alive. 

A gaze, now solidified alike the gem of citrine, closed for a moment as the sigh withered into the world, the Witcher swallowing those words, letting them fall back to the unsaid chamber of the cavern of the hollowing castle of his rib adorned chest. It was only upon his gaze opening, did those few selected words make their appearance, the low register of his voice steeling like suave metal, 

“Jaskier.” The bard’s name was easily upon his palate, a name his vocal cords knew all too well how to speak, and in differing pitches. Yet, he didn’t stop there. A part of him, however, knew he should’ve stopped there. 

Perhaps it was a Witcher thing, or perhaps Geralt had been conditioned to be used to those who were close to him, just: dropping him off. Either option didn’t matter in the moment, for the self-sabotaging part of Geralt always secluded the Witcher, always kept him closed off to anyone but himself.

Truly, anyway,

“Making promises to a Witcher will only get you killed.” 

“If that is my penance, so be it. I wish for no mercy if the price that is due is my life. To see you smile. To see you comfortable. Happy among peers who wish you only good fortune. Even if I must see the sight through spectral eyes, I swear to every god above I will see it.”

Jaskier tilted his head gently, loose chestnut locks cascading over the ardent gaze that drilled into the other. It studied the other’s own amber hues as if trying to see into them like windows. Trying to understand what was going on in the wonderfully infuriating mind of his companion. 

Deep breaths rose the hair-dusted chest of the bard, the thin white cloth of his undershirt shifting beneath the movement, dampened on the shoulders where the sweat had run. Though, perhaps in the whirlwind of it all, Jaskier hadn’t noted the air change. The chill that swept past his skin and rose goosebumps upon them, or how his hair was carried weightlessly into the atmosphere as whistling caught in his ears. He hadn’t even noticed the dark that had begun to cover them, the sky turning an angry grey above their heads. Though, when a sound akin to the howling of the wind sounded behind Geralt, his head rose from it’s tilted position to study the figure who had appeared there. 

A long, dark cloak rested upon sturdy shoulders, little muscle covering his frame, though it was not needed. Calloused, overworked hands rose to extend before him, pointing in the direction of the Witcher. The windswept up the tips of the cape, the darkened fabric there grasping at the loose dust as it swirled around his frame like a personal sandstorm, pulling back just far enough to expose the thick soles of heavy shoes, the large, leather-bound limbs and chest, and the pale and sickly skin that resided beneath. Piercing, blood-red eyes focused in on Geralt, and Jaskier’s mind could do little else but panic. A blast of wind erupted from the stranger’s hand, accompanied by a shout from the bard, ripping from his throat without a thought, in warning.

“Geralt, be-” Though it was all too much, and he found his voice catching in his throat as he moved to cower behind Roach as he found himself doing far too often, rummaging for a weapon. Anything.

The blast of wind sent the pair sprawling, and as Jaskier moved to take cover behind the mare - who was now frantically whinnying and raises her hooves, doing a dance of nervousness and frantic desperation - Geralt was quick to gain momentum back upon his feet, no ounce of hesitation in his physique as he unsheathed the sword on his back; the leather-bound sword unclenching from its sheath with a daring hiss; a warning from the Witcher as his trained hands gripped round the hilt’s circumference.

Geralt didn’t even bother to think to question the stranger before them, freehand raising to his lips as teeth - sharper than a normal human set, yet not noticeable enough on a passing glance -tore the leather from his hand by the apex of the sewn index finger. His own hand thrust itself out, the gesture dictated by his index and middle fingers, the same pulsating force of wind ricocheting through the trees, sending the newfound guest skittering back.

The air in its reaction force had Geralt’s silver tresses, which priorly were neatly tied in their usual attire of a ribbon upon a compacted yet neat bow at his scalp, cascading behind his shoulders, the hair themselves all but gearing up for a fight.

Watching as the force of his own power sent the stranger being pushed back a few feet, Geralt took the time to steal a glance to the mare and bard, dark sculpted brows set harshly upon his brow bone as he wished to ensure their safety in the time he had bought: if it only were a few mere seconds.

Jaskier watched nervously, unable to find anything in the pouches to aid him. Though Jaskier stared as the wizard was blown back by the tremendous force the other had exerted, catching his own nervous gaze with Geralt’s.

The wizard stumbled back but had disappeared by the time he had hit the floor, reappearing from thin air behind Geralt as he delivered a harsh blow to the other’s temple with the handle end of what seemed to be some sort of hunting knife. Jaskier swayed on his feet, though watching this made him feel sicker and sicker, and soon enough, he’d find his feet rushing towards the pair of his own accord. 

Jaskier was afraid. 

Terrified of what might happen to Geralt. His promise rang through his mind. Spoken mere moments ago, but now lost to the onslaught of harrowing emotions that flooded through his mind and silenced every other thought but Geralt. ‘You have my word that I will not rest until you have found peace in life, and I will not let you pass from this world until it is so.’ Fresh words of a strong promise he was determined to abide by like a rule. There were no other two ways about it. No room for debate, no second-guessing. 

As the Wizard flung the dagger at Jaskier, narrowly missing, in favour of finishing Geralt off in a way more satisfying, Jaskier grasped the small blade in his hand upon retrieving it from the ground and put himself between the taller male and his Witcher on the floor. The wizard’s hand glowered with purple magic which sparked and crackled in every direction before a bolt headed straight for Geralt. Jaskier’s slender body curled around Geralt upon diving atop him, sparks exploding from his back as the magic blast made an impact upon tender skin, causing the male to jerk forward over Geralt. Though he turned, despite the deadly pain that scorched his sides, and swung a defiant arm directly at the Wizard. He could feel the bone shatter beneath the blade as he drove it through the assassin’s temple, donning shocked expression before he slumped to the ground just to the side of them, deceased. 

Jaskier bit back a strangled cry, as studying the other instantly for wounds was paramount, discarding his own welfare. “Geralt, are you-”

His worried words were soon suffocated by a choking sound that forced its way from his chest, up his throat and out into the now frosty air that surrounded them. His eyes widened in shock, locked on Geralt’s own amber hues as if they were frozen there. They swirled with sudden confusion, a ghostly expression only seen upon men who knew their fates were sealed. 

The pain began to rip at his skin, taking his attention away from anything else. An unrelenting assault on his nerves that demanded his attention and allowed no room for much else. 

The bard let out a wail as he flopped onto his side, body suddenly curling up and shaking. Trembling in the dirt as the skin of his side began to rot with haste. Broken wails and yells were released from the male’s quivering form, knuckles clenched so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms and left small crescent moon shaped cuts in their wake. The skin of his torso began to grow crimson before strikes of Jade curled around the centre point of impact and rapidly began to spread outward, flesh rotting and peeling in its wake.

Nothing mattered to the injured Witcher in that moment: not the nagging feeling of the dull pain against his temple - which felt like a light continual throb, like when he got decked by that Sylvan -, the marginal annoyance from the ordeal itself, he was always wounding up upon trouble when the bard was in accompaniment, nothing mattered but the utter cries of anguish he heard from Jaskier. After all, it was what bolted the Witcher up in the first place; the sound of the other’s cries electrocuting his central nervous system, jumpstarting it from the shock of the attack’s aftermath.

Geralt had only gotten up, leaning over to where the other was, as Jaskier was crumbling and buckling, body falling alike teetering dominoes, the last one in the long wounding swirling patterned row hitting the ground with a deafening thud.

Much like Jaskier’s current state.

There wasn’t much thought behind the Witcher’s following actions, no care for such that he didn’t even try to hide the worry glittering in those amber optics of his, shining against the growing twilight of the evening alike the flickers of a bonfire; an SOS signal radiating to the bard before him.

And oh, did the Witcher hear it loud and clear.

Jaskier’s promise rang through Geralt’s mind a moment, echoing in the recess of his silencing mind with nothing but that damned promise - why was it always moments like this before something bad had to happen? Fucking destiny- as hands dipped beneath the bard's convulsing form, lifting him as best as could be done in his given state. Standing with haste albeit caution, a steading upward trajectory. Moving him to place him upon the mare’s back, gentle in action for both Roach and Jaskier. Once they got into a more populated area, Geralt would most likely carry him, but for now, if anyone else decided to come try the pair: Geralt needed to be able to defend at a moment’s notice.

Once securing the bard upon Roach’s back, and making sure he was still breathing, even if said breaths were shallow, the Witcher didn’t waste time as he directed the mare to begin walking back. Easily between digits was Geralt’s sword, calloused fingers curling in a white-knuckled curve around the metal hilt; he wasn’t going to let anything further happen to them.

Geralt was certain at some point during the journey, if not a perpetual continuum, that he uttered “Jaskier, you’re going to be okay” to the other. Whose benefit the words were for were long since lost upon the Witcher, caring nothing but ensuring the safety of the bard - he knew Jaskier was dying - upon the galloping mare, her hooves kicking up dust, the loose earth expanding to nothing but trailing dust in their wake. It felt like forever before they did, however, reach a town. 

Geralt gently tapped the mare’s shoulder closest to him for her to slow, the hooves slowing to a steady casual gait, the Witcher able to once again sheath his sword.

Upon the outskirts of the town, he stopped Roach entirely, moving to give her a few pats of gratitude, words of whispering praise upon his lips. Though he wished he could do more for the horse, in the current moment there was something a bit more pressing. Geralt moved to the horses’ side, once again lifting the bard into his arms.

“It’s going to be okay. Just like the Djinn, I’m not going to let you die.” Geralt spoke to what felt like empty air, a part of him not even certain the bard could hear him in his state.

And yet, that didn’t stop the White Wolf from saying it and saying it again, a mantra upon his lips, upon a promise to Jaskier.

Gaited steps closed the distance he could from where Roach had stopped, moving with purposeful steps to the bustling centre of the market.

“Healer! I need a healer!” Geralt, not one to bring attention to himself - for the obvious reasons - shouted now, desperation clinging clearly to his voice, alike icicles to a building in the frigid cold.

People turned, all looking at him. Some gasped, others pointed, some cursed the Witcher, whispered his name like a poisonous remedy that would soon wreak havoc upon them.

Yet all of them stood there, not moving to lend a hand to aid.

Which is why the sounding of the tavern’s door, courtesy of the creaking wood, piqued Geralt’s attention, body swivelling upon the pivotal point of his feet to gaze in the direction of the establishment.

“I thought I recognized that voice. Though, the yelling is what sprinkled doubt.” The words - all too familiar to the Witcher - rang clear as day upon the silent square, the whispering words of the townsfolk acting like a supple blanket, cushioning the mage’s words. Though if it wasn’t her speech that gave her away, surely it would be her; the cascading waves of near abysmal tresses, glimmering in a voluminous wave across her shoulders, which were bare as the fabric of her long - an equally dark matching - attire started at the apex of her chest, brandishing her sun-kissed skin with prideful glory. 

“Yennefer.” The name was all but spat between gritted teeth, the patience the Witcher had - which, in any other normal circumstance was already slim to begin with - obliterated, completely gone as the bard in his arms continued to die.

“Hello to you too, Geralt.” Her words were almost equally venomous, a sneer against those beautifully painted crimson tiers. “Is your desperate cry another wish from a Djinn?” She added in a feigned sympathetic tone, her form climbing down the tavern’s steps. A glittering lavender gaze, sharp as the most beautiful amethyst, landed upon Jaskier, her head tilting to the side a moment before her gaze found the Witcher once more.

“Another accident with your, friend?” She hummed lowly as she spoke, lips pursing a bit. However, her words weren’t entirely an answerable question, rather than a rhetorical sentiment. She had eyes, she could see the condition he’s in. “Unfortunate, truly.”

“Why don’t you help me, then.” The words were all but growled from the Witcher, brows drawing into an anguished fury upon his brow bone, his forehead creasing.

“And why should I?” Delicate arms crossed over her chest as she spoke.

“Because I’m asking.”

A laugh answered his words, the sound lyrical in its delivery, Yennefer raising an arm as a hand barricaded the sound, hiding the slow curve of her plump lips. “And you think because you asked I’m now obligated to help? Oh, you poor Witcher.”

“Yen—” His tone was borderlining a warning, slow and emphasized, cold and metallic upon his husky register. “Please.”

Yennefer paused at that, her blithe facaded demeanour halting. After a moment - a precious moment wasted - her jaw tightened, the skin over the bones becoming taut. “Fine. As much as I’m not overly fond of either of you, I’ll choose to do it for Jaskiers’ sake.” Her gaze was keenly upon the Witcher, neither of them wavering from the interlocked connection, not wanting to be the first one to break away.

If it were any other situation, surely Yennefer would’ve caved first. Yet, this wasn’t any other situation.

Geralt’s gaze landed upon the bard, the worry obvious in his gaze, coating those golden optics of his in a thick crystalline sheet. He can feel the other’s body sustaining injuries, the decay seemingly only growing, and spreading.

“Where are we bringing him? Unless you rather we have a look at him in the middle of this square” Yennefer’s voice cuts through the thick wall of thought drowning the Witcher, a deep resounding hum rumbling from his chest.

Geralt didn’t know what to do, where to bring him. Yet, at the mage’s question, he said the first place that came to mind, “Kaer Morhen.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! Shane here ( 0ver at witchershane ) and tis me, Sonder! We just wanted to make a quick note thanking you all for reading the first chapter and giving it love! ( And if you’re seeing this, for sticking around, too ! ) We hope you enjoy this chapter, and we look forward to seeing you in the next part !
> 
> Thank you for reading, and as always, leave a comment and say what you think, we always love to read what you guys have to say! 
> 
> And as always :  
> Jaskier, Vesemir, Ciri, Lambert and Eskel primarily written by Sonder  
> Geralt and Yennefer primarily written by (the lovely) Shane

**WARNING: This chapter contains content that might not be suitable for all readers, wich is but not limited to: gore, major character death. Reader discretion is advised. Enjoy!**

Jaskier had quickly been ripped into unconsciousness as his body demanded all its energy to fight the alien threat that worked to kill off his cells with deadly speed. He could occasionally hear parts of passing conversations, and Geralt’s own reassurances that were spoken a little too frightfully to be comforting, though he drifted in a weird middle ground. A place where he could barely think straight one minute to coherent thoughts filling his mind the next. Where he could listen to his surroundings and feel Geralt’s close embrace, only to have all senses ripped from him, leaving him cold and dark and oh so alone. 

The last thing he could remember was the sparking noise of a portal nearing, and seeing the lights briefly as he forced dulling eyes open to grasp what was going on. Hearing Yennefer’s commanding tones, instructing Geralt like a slave, on what to do with the bard’s decaying frame. Funny, Jaskier could remember thinking, how Geralt obliged with not so much of a grunt in protest. Why Yennefer? Why did it always seem like she was around when Geralt needed her? He’d had his suspicions after Geralt had used his final wish from the fateful Djinn situation, and refused to tell the curious bard what exactly it was he’d wished for, that it was the reason she was always on hand. Though, this time, he can’t exactly claim he wasn’t thankful for it. Perhaps with her beside him, he may actually survive. Not that it was himself he wanted to survive for, no. It was more for the White Wolf’s sake that he felt so compelled to stay alive. 

“Geralt!”

Vesemir called upon turning, more out of shock for the other's appearance than anything else. Though, as soon as he recognised the other’s companion laid limp in his arms, he scowled deeply and moved to approach, giving a short glance to Yennefer. 

“What happened? This looks like nothing I’ve ever seen.”  
Vesemir glanced over the other’s wounds before clearing off the table, using his arms to discard the old books and pages as if they were mere rags, giving Geralt a place to set the bard. Jaskier glanced up at Geralt with hazed eyes, breath catching in his throat suddenly, before his eyes rolled back in his head. Not dead yet, his heartbeat was faint and slow but still holding on. Just dying. Rapidly. 

“What can I do?” Vesemir looked between the two, an expression of concern formed on aged features. 

It was then, seemingly for the first time since entering the portal, Yennefer and Geralt exchanged glances, before both of them looked at the elder Witcher. Yet before they looked back at Vesemir, so many emotions passed between the two, so many things left unsaid, not just about them, but the situation unfurling. 

Of Geralt and Jaskier.

“I can take a look at him, see if there’s any cure my magic can do.” Yennefer was the first to speak, offering as she took a step forward, ringed digits landing upon the edge of the bard adorned table. Her lavender gaze was soft upon the decaying bard, sculpted darkened brows furrowing as she studied him, dark waves of hair cascading along her shoulders alike a pool of obsidian.

There was chaos surrounding Jaskier, that was for sure. Yet, it felt: stale, a stagnant dessert upon cracking earth.

It felt like death.

Furrowed brows only creased further upon the sorceress’ visage, her forehead creasing with lines and lines of worry. She was silent for a moment, the tension only rising in the air the longer no one spoke. Not that the White Wolf behind Yennefer was one for talking frequently, but he was quieter than usual. No rumbles or grumbles, just: silence. She could feel Geralt’s gaze was cast upon Jaskier, could all but see the glittering flecks of crystalline care in them.

A breath fluttering in Yennefer’s chest a moment, her eyes closing. Upon the exhale she opened them, casting a sidelong glance glance to Geralt, before raising her gaze to Vesemir.  
“It’s magic, that’s for sure; his body is practically radiating unfiltered chaos. A curse seems to be. Yet, you can’t make something out of nothing, it seems the price of the magic is Jaskier’s body. But, with the state his human body is in, I don’t think he’d survive a cure.” 

Vesemir walked out momentarily with a nod as Yennefer offered to study the other’s condition, before returning later with a bowl of cold water and a few rags, as well as a soft cushion to rest beneath the unconscious bard’s head.  
He dipped the rag in the cool water and wrung it out over the bowl, before gently folding it and resting it over the man’s forehead, before moving to the thick cloth of his clothing with scissors, cutting away at the undershirt until Jaskier’s top half was bare. Something Jaskier would’ve complained about, but at least it wasn’t the jacket too. 

The Witcher listened as Yennefer spoke, eyes gliding to Geralt to meet his eyes. The other looked genuinely worried, and it was worrying Vesemir that the other looked so out of sorts. Though comforting, in a strange way. Comforting to see that the trails hadn’t taken all the emotion from-...

The Trails, of course. Now he met the other with a knowing gaze. That had been Geralt’s last resort. Why he had chosen to come here of all places. Vesemir locked eyes with the other, giving him a hardened look. 

“Geralt, he wouldn’t survive. There’s no chance of it.”

Geralt met Vesemir’s gaze with a hardened one of his own, those amber optics sharp; brows angling downward as he looked upon the elder with unwavering resolve. His jaw clenched, teeth-gnashing together as his gaze moved back to Jaskier, observing the bard as he decayed further and further with each passing moment; a moment that could be being used to save him. The hands at his sides clenched, knuckles becoming blanched; a noticeable feat against the loss of his usual leather-clad gloves.

“It’s either that or he dies without trying something.” The words were a defensive growl, the rumbling of the laconic Witcher’s register back, the grave tone scratching at his throat. He refused to let Jaskier die because of some assassin in the woods, of something meant for him. If Jaskier didn’t die during the Djinn ordeal, he sure as hell wasn’t going to die now.  
“I will not let him die without at least trying something first. And unless you have any other ideas, I don’t want to waste time to hear you bitch.”

“Geralt, that’s asking for pain and strife for him,” Yennefer spoke up as she turned, lavender hues keen as she eyed the Witcher under curving brows. “You don’t want to put him through that.”

“Do we have any other fucking options?!” Geralt’s voice became a booming threat in the room, the indentation of his forehead increasing, complexion all but contorting with fury. “I will not sit here idly and watch Jaskier die because you two didn’t want to help.” 

Vesemir gave him a warning look this time, as Geralt seemed to whip himself into a fury. “You know that isn’t it. The trails are painful and deadly. And even if he miraculously manages to pass them, then what? We have an adult Witcher who we’d have to train for years just to simply get a hold on his senses.”

Though the older man did feel for the other, and the sheer reactions Geralt was providing was proof enough that Jaskier meant something to him. Vesemir, after a long moment of silence, calloused hands gently dabbing at the bard’s face with a cloth, turned to the sorceress then. 

“Do you think you can stop the magic spreading while the trials take place? If we’re going to do this, we need to give him the best possible chance.” 

Geralt didn’t respond to the elder Witcher, his position rigid, unwavering from his words, from his decision. His posture stood straight as his gaze lingered back to Jaskier, palate falling silent as Vesemir addressed Yennefer.

The mage, upon turning back to Jaskier as well, resumed her inspection of his condition. Hands raised, gently hovering over the bards’ form like a ghastly fog beginning to roll over hills, to settle upon a quiet dewey morning town. Her fingers fluttered a bit as if reading the air surrounding Jaskier, tainting him.

“I could push it off, almost as a sedation, but it’s not a guarantee it’ll help him survive the trial any more than his current state is.” Was her reply, her tone rather aloof, words spoken slowly alike a melancholic poem.

The White Wolf, from where he was a little ways back, gave a grumbling hum, the pondering worry evident even in the sound; his demeanour doing nothing to give his emotions away: seemed his words had already done that enough for the time being. 

Jaskier’s pained expression softened to a slightly more relaxed one, though this was not necessarily a good sign. Just a sign they needed to hurry.  
Vesemir hummed now, gently taking the damp cloths, now warmer from before due to the sheer heat the man radiated, from the bard’s face, placing them back in the bowl. 

“Then we must take him to the trial rooms. Geralt, are you sure this is what you want to do?”

He left it all up to Geralt. Though this was probably not the best idea, it was clear from the mere frightened scent that the other was giving off that Geralt’s mind could not be changed, and there were no two ways about it. “Then lift him gently and follow alongside me. I’ll send for the herbs, though we should have enough for the trial of grasses. By the time it’s over, if he survives it, we should have enough for the others.”

Vesemir led them through a few darkened hallways into a room that looked like it had not been touched for quite some time. It was large, with a sturdy wooden door on the front that was sealed by a few locks. The walls were stone, and bookshelves full of different leather-bound volumes. At the back of the room was a large hearth that, like everything else in the room, was coated in a light layer of dust. In the centre of the room sat a large leather chair, bolted to the stone of the floor, overshadowing the rest of the room. The arms and legs of the chair, metal covered with plush cushions, were covered with multiple thick leather restraints, which buckled each side with an iron clasp. Just to the left side of it, closer to the door, was a large metal feeding apparatus, with three slots for potions and tubes coming off of each. A wooden table was situated against the wall that held the door, multiple books rested on the surface, illuminated by the soft yet ominous glow of torchlight, that had erupted soon after a quick cast of Igni by the Witcher. Above the table sat sturdy-looking shelves, which displayed rows of dusted jars, all containing different herbs. 

The elder walked inside and began to grasp different herbs and plants in their respective jars on the wall, laying them out on the table as he flipped through a book beside him, finding the page with little difficulty. “Set him on the chair and restrain him. You’re going to have to wake him if you can lend him the energy to keep him conscious.”

The first half was directed to Geralt, and the second half to Yennefer as the Witcher worked away, taking out specific herbs and gathering them in his hands, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. It had been a long time since he’d done this and, though it’s not something you forget easily with time, he had hoped, long ago, that he wouldn’t have to inflict this on another soul again. For longer than a century, at least, but it was not to be. 

Geralt didn’t hesitate as he moved to help set the bard down upon the table, lithe digits moving to cross the straps over the corresponding parts, strapping Jaskier in; not that he wanted to - in such a context, anyway - yet they didn’t have much of a choice; it was the singular most available option to try.

Because, after all, Jaskier had a promise to uphold.

Once Geralt’s portion was done and settled he took a step back, hands clenching once more by his side, as a meek attempt to hold it together, to keep himself together. But he couldn’t stop his thoughts, couldn’t stop their overflowing current:

What if Jaskier died?

Such a thought had Geralt clenching his teeth, hues closing as he tried to focus on his breathing, the ragged sounds heaving inward and outward through a chest that felt hollowed out, aching like an anvil was strung and cemented to his chest, weighing him down. Meanwhile, Yennefer moved, taking Geralt’s previous position, her hands befalling to either of Jaskier’s shoulders.

“Jaskier. You still with us?” A fruitless question, but she was trying to see if he’d react, to stir his consciousness, to gauge how much she needed to give him. A lesser dosage would cement his fate to death, but too much could also get her hurt.

There always was a balance, a give or take. 

Muscles tensed weakly at the speech and contact, barely aware of what was happening. Though he seemed to be conscious, despite all odds, so that was good. Though he couldn’t will his eyes to open in search of the witcher or to shake her hands from his shoulders like he yearned to do so desperately. Just small little movements to signal he was listening. 

“Do you need anything? Something to take from? I can have animals brought in here for you to draw from if needs be.”

Vesemir spoke, glancing back to Yennefer as he tugged gently at a few restraints, just to check they were tight enough and turned his attention to Geralt once he deemed them satisfactory. “You know where the forest is most populated with animals. Quickly go retrieve something live. Something large. Sedate it.”

He pointed to a jar just a little bit away on the edge of the table, filled with darts, tipped with a fast narcotic. “I will not start until you’ve returned.”

Looking at the dart filled jar, Geralt gave a hum. He wasn’t thrilled by the idea, but he knew you couldn’t create something out of nothing; and to ensure both Jaskier and Yennefer were to survive this, there had to be a conduit.

The Witcher only took a singular dart before taking his leave from the room, poising the hilt of the dart expertly between his index and middle fingers, to ensure he wouldn’t accidentally stab himself with the poisoned needle.

It was when he was leaving the building’s grounds did he spot a familiar mare, her hooves giving a nervous stomping dance upon the freshly rained upon earth, a whinny sounding in the air at the presence of the Witcher. Geralt took a bit of a detour to reach the horse, his free hand gently running through her mane; not only did it comfort and console her but Geralt, as well.

Yet, as his hand surpassed her ears, trying to sift through the thick tresses, Roach moved her head, moving to press it into Geralt’s wrist: one of the hands handling the dart. Another whinny, lower this time, sounded in the air.

Brows drew together at the action, the Witcher frowning a bit.

It was almost like Roach was offering herself for the sake of saving Jaskier.  
“Absolutely not, Roach. I think Jaskier would rather come to to see you alive.” Even if the Roach in front of him wasn’t the original he had started his journey as a Witcher with, they all felt like it, all of them were Roach.

And Geralt knew Jaskier adored the mare as much as he did.

Well, maybe not as much, but pretty damn close.

Bringing his hands through her mane, he soothed her with a soft hum, before scratching behind her ears.

“He’ll be okay, Roach. I’ll make sure of it.”

And with such words he was off again, going on the journey to retrieve an animal so they could get started with the trials. The longer he spent doing this, the closer Jaskier was to die without a choice.

Upon his return to the building, and the room where the other trio were, Geralt was lugging a mountain lion of sorts, it seemed, the already injured animal limp between the toned arms of the Witcher, the dart - which matched that of those in the room - was sticking from the animal’s shoulder, right in the muscled tissue besides its shoulder.

Still holding it as his steps ceased within the room, he looked at Vesemir.

“Now are we ready?” 

By the time Geralt would return, Vesemir would be stood at the end of the chair, hands gently brushing chestnut locks back and out of the bard’s face, steel eyes focussing on Geralt and the animal he’d managed to capture. “Should that suffice? If it does, we can begin.”

He asked, studying Yennefer as the question left his lips. Then his gaze fell to the bard, almost sympathetically, then back up to Geralt. “You don’t have to be here for this. I can fetch Eskel if you’d prefer not to see.”

Yennefer nodded to Geralt to set the animal down, not wanting to interject between the two Witchers. It was only when the animal was once out of his arms did Geralt speak, his gaze flickering to Yennefer as she went about channelling her chaos, 

“I’m not going anywhere, and I’m sure as hell not letting Eskel come in here. This is my bard, so I’ll stay and ensure his safety; no need to involve anyone else.” Geralt didn’t even realize what he had said - even once the words had grazed past his lips, his citrine infused hues landing upon Vesemir.

“Now can we stop wasting time?” 

“...Okay. We need to wake him up and inject him with this concoction of...Mother’s Tears, Speargrass sap, and Wildrye juice.”

He spoke absentmindedly, almost to himself, moving back to the table to mix up the concoctions and put them into three different vials. Then he turned and studied over the bard, approaching the side of the chair as he fitted each into their own feeder, ready to be used. 

“Geralt, come over here and gently hold his head. I’ve had more than a few knock themselves out.”

Silver irises watched the other as he waited for him to move, taking a deep breath. 

Nodding, Geralt silently moved to Jaskier’s side, doing as he was told; he’d learned that, even if he wanted to fight Vesemir on a lot of topics, there were some he couldn't.

Besides, he’d rather be at Jaskier’s side than have the potential of the other hurting himself; it would just go better this way. So, there he was, the ol’ mighty White Wolf, grasping Jaskier’s hand, his calloused digits consuming the bard’s lithe and strung out ones, watching as the elder Witcher nodded his approval, moving to begin the process.

Jaskier shifted as he felt the energy suddenly flood him, prompting his eyes to flutter open, fear soon filling them as he caught sight of exactly where the hell he was. It was like a dungeon. Was he to die here and not in some field of buttercups like the romanticist expected? A strangled noise left the bard, arms tensing within the restraints as frightened eyes flicked from them to Yennefer, then to Vesemir and finally, the scalpel in his hands. 

“Wha-...Ger-...Geralt?”

Came strangled words, neck craning to try and find the other, back arching a little off the chair, despite the pain that reprimanded him for it. Geralt was immediately at the other’s attention. Shaking his head. “Hey hey, Jaskier. Relax. It’s going to be okay, alright?” He nodded with his words a moment, taking a breath to keep himself composed to address the bard.

“We’re going to need to inject you with a treatment, okay?” It wasn’t Geralt’s best decision to really lie to Jaskier, but telling the bard Geralt had decided to turn him into a Witcher to save his life probably wasn’t any better.

The lesser of two evils, right?

Gods, that thought alone made Geralt want to crush his own sword, yet he stayed put, by Jaskier’s side.

Where he’d always be. 

Jaskier’s frightened baby blues, blown wide with fear, locked onto the other for support, as if even seeing the other was doing something to calm him. He trusted Geralt, he really did. Especially now, because if he didn’t, what would he have?

“O-...Okay, Okay, just don’t leave-...”

His hand tightened around the other’s own a little tighter, the restraints still nagging at the back of his mind. All this for a treatment?

Vesemir shot Geralt a look at the lie, but took a deep breath and gently rested his hand on the other’s forearm, deciding to focus over speaking. He could chastise the other later for what was possibly a very very bad decision. “I’ve already administered Hookweed extract to numb the pain, did it while you were hunting. Just relax, Jaskier.”  
The gruff voice spoke, softened with sympathy for the bard. He gently pressed a scalpel into his arm to make three incisions, before feeding the tubes into each. This caused Jaskier to tense up and turn his head towards Geralt, eyes twisting shut at the horrible feeling. And that was the least of it. 

“I’ll grab him something to bite down on, don’t want him to break his teeth.”  
Vesemir muttered, rummaging around before finding a long piece of wood and gently placing it between the bard’s lips when they parted in a request for an explanation. Vesemir gave Geralt and Yennefer an uneasy look before gently opening the valve to administer the Mother’s Tears. Almost instantly, Jaskier’s eyes shot back open and wide, body convulsing before arching off the table as a pained scream ripped through his throat and past his lips. The restraints did well to keep him down but it didn’t stop the thrashing from Jaskier that came thoughtlessly from the immense pain. It had spread from his arm in milliseconds, the feeling ice cold before it spread rapidly and bloomed into scorching heat, forcing unbearable agony upon the bard. Every muscle on his body was tense, dragging in desperate breaths in between the shrieks that echoed around the room.

“Geralt, Geralt, please-!”

He begged, tears that he had little hope in stopping, slipping from his eyes and down his cheeks in streams. 

“Please, Stop it! Make it stop, I can’t-...can’t! It hurts!”

Jaskier’s voice broke on those last words, a choked breath forcing its way out as bright blue eyes, shining with tears, settled on the other’s piercing gaze desperately. 

The words were spoken hastily, desperate pleas in a last-ditch effort for help, though it was too late to be stopped now. His head shot to the side as his chest arched, lips parting to allow a flow of vomit to escape and splash upon the floor, almost dislocating his arm from the sheer force of how he had turned.  
Vesemir looked to Geralt before turning the vial and releasing the Wildrye juice into the mix, resulting in another round of uncontrollable shrieks from the songbird. Every muscle in his body tensed up as it tried to rise away from the table and the thing causing him the pain. The leather restraints were tight, and they rubbed his sensitive skin raw from the jerking and jolting of the man’s actions. His grip on Geralt’s hand was deadly tight, and it acted as an anchor every time Jaskier got a moment to think, even if it was mere seconds before his body would fight back again. 

Vesemir looked disturbed, to say the least, a hand moving to release the last portion, the Speargrass sap, before both glided to gently push the man’s chest back down onto the chair, one strong hand either side of his ribcage, careful not to apply too much pressure, though the strength Jaskier was pushing against him with was incredible considering his build. 

“Come on, kid. You can do this.”He muttered seconds before another round of screaming began, his voice cracking and breaking now. It was too much. All the pain, all the sensations, he was quickly losing his grasp. And, as it slipped from his clutches, Jaskier fell limp, eyes that were usually so vibrant dulling as his head rolled lifelessly to the side.

“Fuck-!” 

Silence. That is what befell the room then; pure and utter silence. No one moved for a moment, nothing but the wind currents sloshing through the cavern of the room, swirling between the three alive patrons, and softly blanketing Jaskier’s form, still strapped to the table.

Yennefer, in the meantime, cast her violet gaze away, a hand raising to barricade her lips closed, to keep the levee upheld before a dam was struck and broken, all but an index finger securing the gate. Eyes closing momentarily, she heaved a sigh, trying not to focus on all the death suddenly encompassing the room, Death holding the inhabitants between her spindly fingers, boney digits beckoning the others, waiting for their eternal time to be gone, like the final grains of sand dwindling from one half of the hourglass.

The White Wolf stared, stunned into obliterating silence, the hand clasped around Jaskier’s still tight, still there. Yet, he could feel the lifelessness in the hand, the strength from the bard gone, sapped out like water from a drying rag. He was lifeless, nothing but the straps and Geralt’s own hand in his keeping him afloat.

It felt like the anvil, weighing the Witcher’s heart down, was suddenly on its last string, and now had snapped entirely, the impact from it hitting the bottom of his abdomen crumbling him. His footing faltered for a moment as he could feel his knees buckling. It wasn’t for the sake of the putrid smell of bile in the room, wasn’t the chilling shudder racing down his back. It was the sheer fact he had lost the one person whom he had grown to care for. The one person who allowed for Geralt to still feel he was human.

And it was in that moment, the finite strife capturing hold of his entire physique like the jaws of another beast, Geralt, the White Wolf, ol’ mighty Witcher of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, realized he loved Jaskier.

And it was far too late.

Calloused hands moved in a blur of haste, ripping off the buckles holding the straps to the table, yanking the leather from across the bard’s chest, right there when his form fell, buckling under its lifeless strength.

Yet, Geralt held him in his arms like he was still alive, merely sedated or asleep. His chest felt like an ever-tightening gyre then, the golden strings of Fate’s Destiny clutching him, having a tight hold upon the Witcher, overzealous in its suffocation of the man. He could feel the rising of crystalline tears to his ducts, the feeling of emotion surging in his chest. Geralt had lost all the words he used to know for such emotions, his vocabulary dwindling - not in a direct sense of the word, but more so he had lost the capacity to know what they felt like individually - until it had become the bare minimum, the raw essentials at the core of the eloquent meanings and words. Of verbal and not so many phrases.

Golden gaze became blurry as ragged breaths brewed upon the cauldron of Geralt’s chest, his grip upon Jaskier tightening tenfold, as if his own holding of the bard could radiate life back into him, like the soil around a flower, cultivating it, giving it a chance to bloom, to feel the sun along its velvet petals and fuzzy stem; upon its chestnut locks, also all over the place by the grace of the wind or an excited hand sifting through it upon a newly crafted line of a song; a chance to allow expert lithe digits to strum it along a lute, for those lines to translate into a song of love, of strife, or even a humorous entertaining act.

It was then, for a brief moment, that Geralt understood a part of why Jaskier did what he did: there was something about seeing the joy in people’s expressions, lifting people’s spirits.  
Yet, it was only in the loss of such joy that the Witcher was seeing it, was acknowledging it.

He didn’t feel the tear escape his ducts until he noticed the crystalline spot glistening upon the bard’s cheek, the liquid gently streaming down upon the skin of his cheek, trailing downwards to his chin. If Destiny was truly at play, perhaps it was why such a picture was mirroring upon Geralt’s own cheek, the freeform tears now creating a streaking trail along his ragged cheek.

Still, he didn’t say anything, felt there was nothing he could say; at least, nothing that could change the outcome of what was already unfolding, had already unfolded. He was at the mercy of something he always felt was utter bullshit.

But, Geralt’s warring mind argued, it’s what brought Jaskier to him in the first place, wasn’t it?

The Witcher’s skull dipped, caved in as he moved to press their foreheads together, if only to hide the tears from the rest of the patrons in the room, trapping the surge of emotions between himself and the man he held on to, gripped in a protective embrace.

“Jaskier,” The bard’s name was upon Geralt’s palate alike a plea, sloshing gravel upon a metallic register, groggy and lethargic from the drying hoarseness of his throat, the demanding ache from the suppression of his crying. The sound stayed between the castle formed by the Witcher and the bard, the mighty White Wolf and his songbird.

It wasn’t a perfect castle by any means - especially in their current state, gripped tightly by the mortality of man, but the fragility of men - but it didn’t, couldn’t take away the fact that it was theirs. And it had been building all this time, ever since that damned day upon the mountainside, Geralt still had the scar upon his temple from the Sylvan’s projectile, continuing to grow and form from every moment onward, until it had built up, preparing the walls for this very moment.

Yet, even in such a protective barrier, bonded together by time and space, by the conversations - even if the majority were led by Jaskier - in the end, it still hadn’t been enough.  
When Geralt thought of his actions failing, of his own failures, never once did it cross his mind that it would cost him Jaskier. 

Jaskier’s body was limp with the movement, crystal blue eyes that were usually filled with so much light now glazed over and dull like someone had sucked all the joy from the cheery bard. His smooth skin had dulled too, turning pale and cold to the touch as his heart slowed to a stop beneath ragged breaths, which, in turn, halted too. 

Vesemir watched as the sorceress turned away, steel gaze softening upon Geralt as he seemingly fell apart, barely flinching as the other ripped the boy’s lifeless body from the chair and pulled him into his own arms. All words died on his lips, gently parted as he watched Geralt curl into himself with Jaskier in his arms. It struck pain through his chest. It had been a long time since Geralt’s hard-boiled exterior had allowed anything vaguely like emotion shine through, but Vesemir had known the man longer than most. Back when he was still a little boy, so hopeless and afraid. Abandoned, yearning for the one who’d left him behind. Vesemir saw that now in the other, and it caused a painful tightness to rise in his chest, though he wouldn’t dare give in to it. 

After giving the other a long moment, the Witcher walked around the table and gently rested a supportive hand on his shoulder, taking a deep breath to calm himself. 

“Geralt, you should-...”

Though he froze, and time seemingly stood still. Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or was there a flicker of gold in the dull, doll-like orbs that resided in the other’s head. That wasn’t right, he was sure that hadn’t been there before

“Yennefer.”He called, moving around to gently press two fingers beneath his jawline, eyes widening slightly as he felt the slow return of a heartbeat. 

That gold was flooding the blue irises of the other. It grew stronger and stronger with every second before a sudden gasp of breath left Jaskier’s lips, dragging in needed oxygen.

Trembling hands rested against Geralt’s cheek as the man panted for breath, blinking in the bright lights of his surroundings as his new eyes adjusted to the change. The golden, now cat-like hues fell upon the Wolf’s form, strangled coughs leaving the bard as he tensed up, eyes focussing on the shining trails on the other’s rough skin. He was crying? Why? What had happened? And how had he gotten off of the bed and into the other’s arms? 

“Ger-Geralt? Are you alright?”The fool was always focussed on others and not his own wellbeing. Even after dying briefly, his concerns were all directed at the other’s sombre expression. “What happened?”

“Bastard.” Vesemir exclaimed with a slight laugh, clutching his chest as he looked down at the other. 

Geralt noted the voices around him, heard Vesemir call for Yennefer. He heard Jaskier’s voice come into the mix. Jaskier? The Witcher raised his head, suddenly meeting matching golden optics. Eyes that belonged to the bard. Former bard.

Stunned into silence, the laconic Witcher just stared at him, his chest heaving. Except, this time it was with relief. Pure, unadulterated relief. His facade broke then, the sternness across his countenance shattered, and the drying tears upon his cheeks twinkled as he adjusted, leaning back to observe in fact was seeing an alive Jaskier and not some vision plaguing him, haunting his thoughts.

Minus monstrous poison, such wouldn’t exactly be the first time. But he was conscious this time - as far as he knew, of course - but that didn’t matter.

What mattered was the fact that Jaskier was speaking, and addressing him, nonetheless.

Geralt didn’t have words to answer the other, couldn’t speak at this moment as his throat grew dry, hoarse from the crying and fear he had lost the other.

Instead, he leaned forward once more, arms still clutching Jaskier in that protective castle, and pressed his lips to the other’s forehead. The words he spoke afterwards were muttered, relief flooding them like polish to a sword. 

“Jaskier, you’re okay.” 

The other’s rather...un-Geralt-like actions left him stunned for a brief moment. Did the other really just kiss his forehead? And the tears... His brain is rapidly trying to catch up but there’s a lot going on in his brain right now. He can feel the blood trickling down his arm from where the tubes had been pulled free and can hear the faint drip of the liquid from said pipes across the room. And the darkened room was so much brighter than before. Not to mention his stomach was doing flips and he felt as if he may throw up any second. 

“Yes, I-...I am...Did I die?”He studied the other curiously, staring into the other’s golden orbs, confusion swirling in his own. 

Vesemir decided Geralt could handle this conversation and moved across the room to retrieve bandages. He walked back over and gently took Jaskier’s arm, not wanting to disturb the two, though a grin was on his features. He had seen the kiss, and it had warmed him. Geralt had been through many hardships. Most Witchers live in solitude until they are killed, but the kiss harboured a hope that Geralt’s life may be led down a more fulfilling path. 

Despite the grin from Vesemir, Geralt still shot the elder Witcher a look - a concoction of swiftly narrowing hues, brows instantly pressing against one other - before his gaze lingered back to Jaskier, such an expression loosening from his visage. “It's a long story. Perhaps we should start with what you remember so I don’t bore you with minuscule details.” There was a hum to back Geralt’s words, that rigid register back in his tone and syllables, rejuvenated once more. Despite seeing the other alive and well, the Witcher was still treating time like it was of the essence. Yet, in more ways than one, it no longer was. Not for the moment, anyway.

Meanwhile, Yennefer moved from her previous petrified post, moving to station herself at Vesemir’s side, whispering a question of assistance; she wished to help in any way she could. Despite the fact that she herself hadn’t quite seen the kiss, she had told Geralt that she was doing this for Jaskier’s sake. 

“I-...”

His face twisted into a frown. What could he remember?

“I remember...I remember waking up...And talking with you...and-...and the tubes going in…” He trailed off, glancing to his bloody arm that Vesemir was currently wiping while offering Yennefer to heal the small wounds loosely since they would have to be reopened anyway for the next trial. 

“And-...Then I went cold, really cold. Like ice, but then I was hot. And it-...Felt like I was burning alive. And my chest, my stomach...It stung...Like there was something in there shredding my insides to pieces…and then nothing. ”

He took a shaky breath, swallowing gently. 

“But it’s all over now, right? I don’t have to go through it anymore?”

Vesemir looked at Geralt with a stern gaze, one that demanded not to respond to this question with a lie. It would only make things worse. 

Geralt saw the stern gaze clearly, a huff withering past flaring nostrils. He shouldn’t have lied in the first place, but he knew Jaskier; outwardly telling him he was going to be forced through the trials would’ve been like snapping the bard’s lute in half right in front of him.

A sigh billowed from his chest as he paused, silence once again eating away at the room. Geralt swallowed harshly for a moment, brows twitching as he tried out a few lines to the other. None of them were exactly easy, especially since there already was no going back.

Citrine gaze was settling upon Jaskier’s matching one now, a deep inhale preparing for his following words, yet he knew the longer he waited to speak, the worse the aftermath was probably going to be. This should be like ripping off bandaging: despite the gross wound festering beneath it, removing it quickly would prove better in the long run,

“No. You have to finish the trials.” 

Horror spread across the man’s face, eyes widening slightly at the mere thought of it. No, he wasn’t sure if he could bear going through that again.  
“Geralt, I-...I can’t do that again. I don’t know if I can...Please don’t make me…”  
The words left his lips in whimpers, head shaking side to side slowly, tears pricking at his eyes. 

Vesemir watched before shaking his head. He’d done this so many times and each time they begged for mercy, continuing never got any easier. But, he couldn’t let Geralt be the bad guy here. It would possibly break him if Jaskier had grown to resent him for what was about to happen. 

So the man walked out briefly, while Jaskier made rambling pleas and promises, and returned with Eskel and Lambert, two other Witchers. After explaining the severity of the situation to them, and taking a few more minutes to convince them, they begrudgingly agreed to help. 

So, as Eskel and Lambert’s arms both wrapped around one each of Geralt’s own and yanked him back, Vesemir pulled the man from his arms with ease, setting him back on the chair despite the struggling. He managed to pin an arm down and attach the two straps at his wrist and upper arm, before looking to Yennefer to continue with them on the other side, since, with how hard the other was thrashing to get away, he couldn’t manage it on his own. 

Eskel and Lambert had pinned Geralt against the wall, which was the plan whether Geralt struggled or not, using their bodies to hold the White Wolf against it, arms outstretched and pinned, so all he could do was watch as Jaskier screamed his name and stared at him through tearful eyes. Then, as Yennefer rose her hand over his forehead, he soon slumped and fell into a deep slumber, limp against the chair. 

“There...Now he can rest until his body is ready enough for the next trial.”  
Vesemir walked around to study the wound on his side, which was healing fairly nicely already. The rotting had begun to recede back to the centre point, jagged lightning-bolt scars left in its wake. 

Geralt had watched Vesemir leave, a hint of the elder Witcher’s form blurring in his peripheral, nothing but a quick streak of colour against the stagnant grey. At first, he hadn’t thought much of it, merely wanting to avoid Jaskier and his pleas, the words stringing after another in a coiling bundle around the choice to be made.  
Yet when he felt the wall slam into his back, Eskel and Lambert being the tacks to hold him to it in an action that surely would’ve broken some vertebrae had he been human, surprise contorted his features, forcing his eyes, still glittering with the drying aftermath of those tears, to blow wide as the gold swam within the expanse of a blanching sea, sculpted brows - still their naturally dark colour - to raise. In the midst of such, a sneer tugged back the upper portion of his lips, baring teeth: if matching his medallion was any imagery.

“What the hell is this going to solve?” Words were dripping in askance, the younger Witcher still struggling against Eskel and Lambert, only at the mercy of the other wolves; an attempt, he knew, that was rather fruitless.

The drive to protect Jaskier, however, forced him to trudge on.

But all he could do at the moment was watch onward as the scene before him unfurled, now entirely out of his control. 

“There was no way you were going to allow us to continue this with him wailing on you like that. This is for the best. One more trail, easier than the last. Then it’s over.” Vesemir reasoned, hands gently grazing over the scars on his sides as Eskel and Lambert let Geralt go wordlessly, Eskel patting his shoulder before the two left, eager to get out of the room. 

Jaskier looked fairly peaceful in his sleep, lips gently parted to draw in breaths, eyes reddened from crying softening into a light pink. His chestnut locks flopped over his forehead in waves. Though his skin was a little flushed and pale from the death that had threatened him mere hours ago, the warmth was slowly returning to his cheeks. 

“Geralt, stay with him if you’d like, but you need to eat something.” 

There was a huff from the White Wolf as he was released, hands moving to dust along his sleeves, his gaze following the fellow Witchers from the room, before the trajectory of his sight trailed to Vesemir. 

“I’ll be fine. Let’s just get this over with.” Guttural words crawled from his vocal cords like spindly digits, the metallic register clipped, curt snaps of words from his lips- which were dissolving from their previous sneer - as if it were a harp player merely flicking at his strings.

“I want this to go as fast as possible. The more time we waste, the less that goal is met.” He spoke again, though this time he wasn’t looking to Vesemir; but rather Jaskier, brows overturning from their initial positioning to a worried upheaval of a curve. 

“No, we can not do this now. He needs all the rest he can get. His body is still rebuilding itself from the inside out. We have to let him sleep.”  
The elder Witcher watched as the other spoke with a venomous tone, shaking his head. 

“I’ll send for food to be brought into you, and for him when he wakes. Then we can continue. Just...Geralt, don’t stress yourself out about this. The worst is over with, you just have to stick with it. He’ll be fine.”

And, with that, Vesemir was gone. 

Upon the closure of the heaving door - an action that ensured that Yennefer and Geralt were the only conscious ones left in the room -, the mage looked at the Witcher, violet eyes observing him.

Silence still blanketed the room as she moved and her gaze left Geralt, graceful steps manoeuvring around the perimeter of Jaskier and the contraption he was still strapped to. A hand raised, delicately swiping upon the chestnut stresses that swept across the expanse of the sleeping bard’s visage, the pad of her thumb lingering upon the once again warming skin.

Geralt watched such actions with apprehension, tension suffocating his physique, crushing his resolve; ready to strike at a moment's notice. Which would be asinine in this case; yet something Geralt couldn’t brush off. It painted his countenance clearly, moulding malleable features into its usual impassive state, yet the undertones of the brows pushing downwards, the pursing of his lips, and most of all, the clenching hands upon his sides, knuckles blanching almost as brightly as his hair, that all would’ve been a dead giveaway.

That was the funny thing. When it came to someone who’s words never betrayed them, it was almost the actions.  
After all, pictures always paint a thousand words; lively creatures were only moving works of art.

“You care for him, don’t you?” Yennefer’s words sounded in the quiet  
expanse of the room, breaking the solitude of sounds’ absence. It was then her eyes rose, once again poised upon the Witcher, yet her hand still softly brushing along Jaskier’s cheek.

Placing herself at either end of the connection she was observing.

Geralt’s end was met with a clenching jaw, scruff riddled skin tightening, pulling over the rows of teeth hidden behind lips and skin, becoming taut; had he forced his teeth any further together, surely they would have threatened to shatter. Even when he didn’t immediately answer, Yennefer met his cast-iron gaze, clad in nothing but the shimmering gold that rose from the fire of hell alike Lazarus, a smile coming to fruition across those ever gleaming tiers.

“You know, I know that look Geralt. Your brooding charm isn’t all that hard to read. Not when you’ve read the book a few times.” Brows quirked skyward at her words as if beckoning the Witcher to challenge her words, to come to his own defence.

And yet, he didn’t, instead staying silent, the only defence he was holding was the rigid posture in his straight shoulders.

Another hand movement, piquing Geralt’s gaze to espy the wisp of a hand, the side of an index finger, gently brush away more hair, the strands clinging to the adoration in the soft movement.

“What? Did you think I was just going to let him die? Yen.”

Even as he said her name, Yennefer didn’t raise her gaze to Geralt, instead keeping it upon the slumbering man, still strapped to the table. There was a forlornness hiding behind the glittering violet, cascading like a retrograde, a constellation of something she herself yearned for. She ignored his comment. “How long?”

Geralt, clearly incredulous, faltered, brows twitching in response. “What?” The word sputtered from his lips, the wary edge he was on teetering, almost as if you could hear the sound of the rocks coming from its’ tip, clink, clink, clinking from the edge, careening down below.

Still, Yennefer didn’t reward his words with any of her own, instead retracting her arm, a hum sounding at her lips, as if satisfactorily at the sight of Jaskier and the newfound state of his hair. The Witcher watched, far too on the edge of his consciousness, and following every breathing movement the sorceress made, an almost franticness to the darting golden hues of his, trailing as Yennefer, painstakingly slowly made her way back around the edge of Jaskier’s presence, before her steps slowed to a ceasing halt in front of the Witcher.

Mimicking her motions from earlier, a hand rose, gently brushing away a stray silver strand from Geralt’s face, plastered to his skin with the natural glue of sweat beading upon his skin. There was a meticulousness to her actions, a gentle albeit loving notion to everything. The touch surprised the Witcher, yet he made no initial indicator to move.

“I wonder when it was. The mountain? A dragon hunt is always recommended for a romantic outing.” A pause, another flick of another strand of hair. “The Djinn? You came to me looking like you’d seen a ghost. Or, if one had been in your arms.” A pause. A flick. Repeat. “Time is seemingly endless for us, isn’t it, Geralt? Yet it only takes someone special to mark its passing, to make the things we do worth it.” Another hum, this time resembling a soft huff of an exhale, content in its delivery and pondering in its nature, came to blossom at her lips. Violet was unwavering from amber, amethyst battling for the truth underneath the scorpion citrine, the hardened gaze of the White Wolf almost a rival to the animals’ striking needle tail.

“Or perhaps, even,—” Yennefer continued to speak, still not giving room for an answer to be given, “—the best love we feel is that which takes us by surprise, that has no timestamp or expiration date.”

Why give room to speak when Yennefer could see the answer behind the gaze meeting her own? Still, just as she had poked and prodded with her words, the mirroring actions, the Witcher caved in, only if it were a singular word.

“Yes.”

Because a singular word was all that was needed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you hadn’t have cared so much, I wouldn’t have lived. But that look. You looked like you needed me. Like me dying would do more damage to you than it would to me, and there wasn’t a single cell of my body that could allow me to hurt you like that. I’m here for you, Geralt. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey lovelies! Sonder and Shane, here again, to thank you all for sticking around and reading this chapter! We are having so much fun writing this and to see that you all are enjoying it is really encouraging. This chapter is a little softer, and we promise we are getting to the rainbow after the rain! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and as always, leave a comment and say what you think, we always love to read what you guys have to say! 
> 
> And as always :  
> Jaskier, Vesemir, Ciri, Lambert and Eskel primarily written by Sonder  
> Geralt and Yennefer primarily written by (the lovely) Shane

It would be a few long days before Jaskier would rouse from his deep slumber forced upon him by the sorceress. Perhaps it was justified, for her to take such acts because his body felt a lot better than it had in the hours before the healing sleep. Though his eyes were gently fluttering open, once again adjusting to the light changes with little difficulty, thanks to the enhancements from the torture he’d endured. 

The male took in a deep breath, arms tensing gently beneath the leather straps he was bound by. Though he found his voice soon enough, though it was hoarse and broken from the screaming, and then the disuse. 

“Geralt?”

His head craned to the side to try and find the other, golden orbs piercing through the dark surroundings in search of his Witcher. Though his stomach ached with the demand of food, and his muscles cracked in complaint as he moved, he still could only focus on getting to the other in these moments. 

Unfortunately for Jaskier’s limited movement, Geralt had stationed himself behind the newfound Witcher’s head, nearest the door; it made things - ie., Vesemir and Yennefer coming and going - easier, and he could be on edge easier.

Brooding, was his charm, after all.

“I’m here,” He spoke up, the booted foot planted to the wall pushing off, his physique stretching a bit in its toned levels as he made the foot frantically gaited strides to the other; he had been waiting for this for days, doing nothing but drowning in the fruitless worry that crashed along the embankment of his consciousness, forever lapping at a mind which never stopped.

Upon rounding the table, to face the other face-to-face, Geralt searched Jaskier’s visage, relief flooding his own.

It was good to hear his voice again. “Jaskier.” 

As soon as the other’s deep tones hit his ears, he jolted up and twisted his frame to try and see the other. 

He seemed to calm a little as the other approached, stomach growling aloud for something to eat. Though his hand strained to reach the other from the bonds. 

“Geralt...I-...”

He was a little lost for words, anything he wanted to say dying on his lips.   
His gaze locked with the other’s, amber orbs swirling with relief at the other’s presence, though it didn’t seem to support his words. 

“I’m scared, Geralt. I’m terrified...is this what you had to go through? All of this?” 

At first, Geralt didn’t answer Jaskier. He fell silent, which didn’t seem out of the ordinary for the laconic Witcher, yet this time around: he owed Jaskier answers.

Especially if the first time around, he hadn’t exactly been truthful.  
A heaving breath marked the fact he had heard the other, a preparation for his incoming words.

“Yes. These are the trials we all went through.” Though, there wasn’t a sense of pride in Geralt’s voice, no sense of an accomplishment by any means. “I didn’t do this for a reason you think I did,” He began to add, that fierce golden gaze still even with the other, still level, “I did it because you were dying, Jaskier. And that wasn’t anything like the Djinn. This was the only option available.” He won’t add, however, the fact that Jaskier indeed died, or anything in those following moments, but perhaps it wasn’t needed to be said at the current juncture. 

He could see the other’s face change. The tensing of his jaw which always happened when the emotionless witcher by choice had to navigate his way through a difficult situation. And the way his body shuffled a little, too. The bard watched with interest as Geralt sucked in a breath, ready to say something he didn’t want to admit. Jaskier had seen it many times before. 

Though the answer tugged at him gently, adding a certain hollowness to his chest that could only be roused by the bard’s empathy towards others. “...I know, Geralt.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, gaze softening as it flicked over the other before demanding an audience with those citrine hues. “You-...You’re doing your best. And I know that. Thank you.”

He opened his mouth to speak again but the words died on his lips. Should he ask about what had happened before? But how could he put into words what he had experienced? The other crying over him. Feeling his tears on his cheek, hearing the gentle sobs. What could Jaskier possibly say about it that wouldn’t send Geralt into some sort of dismissive or defensive state? Now perhaps wasn’t the time. They can talk on it after. 

Hearing those words from Jaskier; they should’ve been of a comforting momentum, something to soothe the qualms tidal waving over his system, but his entire being felt consumed, lost in the eye of the storm that was everything that had led up to the moment.

The fact that the other was a Witcher.  
Talk about destiny taking a hundred and eighty-degree turn.

Entirely ass backwards.

“Don’t.” Geralt spoke, the singular word a gravelly plea, grinding up against the rocky terrain of his drying palate, the sour taste upon his bittersweet tongue. A sigh brewed in the swirling calamity of his being, casting away from his parted lips, a twitching scowl upon them, only further accentuating his cupid’s bow.

“I didn’t even do anything. Well,” A pause, the Witcher’s tongue slowly sliding itself along his upper lip, “besides get you hurt, but that doesn’t need thanks. If anything, the opposite.” His gaze shifted then, eyes trailing down from Jaskier’s, lowering and lowering until they were upon his own hands, the fists of them straining at his sides, his hands beginning to shake.

“What matters, is that you’re alive.” Geralt concluded, such a vulnerable facade being pushed back up by the regenerating wall, masking itself as hands unclenched, jaw returning to its normal impassive pursing pout, the sheen from his optics gone, a glassy matte finish to them. Yet, he looked back at Jaskier, head moving to bob forward and tilted, a ghost of a smile haunting those lips of his, much like they had that night at the betrothal.

Even if it was the same expression, between the same two people, no interruption to the signal’s connection: it spoke different volumes.

Things were different.

Geralt took a breath, the storm inside him waging, warring at the conflicting demeanours in him. Break the wall down, one by one.

“I care, Jaskier. That’s not something that needs gratification.”

And maybe, if Destiny so permitted it between her interwoven digits, just maybe: that wasn’t a bad thing. 

Jaskier’s expression instantly soured at the other’s singular word. No, at his desperate plea. A plea towards Jaskier, to stop whatever he was doing because it was hurting him, emotionally if not physically. Despite the bard’s best intentions to help, he seemed to be doing more damage, rather than healing the other from it. 

The other’s words didn’t agree with the bard whatsoever, and defiant words of protest quickly broke through the self-inflicted barrier of silence. 

“No, I hurt myself. You didn’t put me in the line of fire, Geralt. I put myself there. And this...Whatever this is-”

He jerked his arm against the restraints as if he made to raise it, the wires held to him beneath pale skin shifting and bouncing from the sudden jerk.  
“-is you helping me. Not hurting me. Well, it hurts like a whoreson but you aren’t doing this to me...you’re trying to help me, Geralt, and I will never not thank you for that. If you think you can convince me otherwise you are sorely mistaken!”

The songbird watched the other’s gaze fall to his tensing hands, a gentle, sharp breath being sucked in between plush, yet dry tiers. 

His tongue slipped out to wet them before he began to speak again, though, once again, the words died on his lips. 

Because, what? Out of everything Jaskier thought Geralt was going to retaliate with, that was absolutely not on the list. The gentle tilt of his head, the smile. A look he’d seen before but craved to see again ever since that horrid conversation with the baron. Though at the time, he’d been too peeved to truly take in the look of admiration the other had so rarely offered up, but now it was there, clear as day. 

“Geralt, I-”

Surely, he would have fainted, had he been anywhere else. The pure emotion he was allowing Jaskier to see, even if the other wasn’t directly showing it. Jaskier could read him, and Geralt was aware as such. 

Perhaps things had changed indeed. 

“You-...”

He frowned a little, though a smile tugged the corners of his lips upward. 

“You care? Did you hear that right? Am I hallucinating? Does Geralt of Rivia, The White Wolf, The Butcher of Blaviken really care about little old me?”  
Though he’s joking with the other, the wonder he felt could not be expressed any other way. Well, other than perhaps crying?

That would be an unseemly sight given the circumstances. “I care a lot about you too, Geralt. That’s why I’m still here in fact…”

After a long, pensive moment, the bard spoke again, to clarify his meaning. 

“I did die. That is clear to me now. Everything was dark and it felt like the claw of some unsightly being was grasping at my neck and pulling me down. Into an abyss. Into a world without you. But there they were, those bright amber eyes of yours, your worried, panicky gaze shining through as a grasping light. I think, perhaps, if you hadn’t-...”

Ah, how to put this. 

“If you hadn’t have cared so much, I wouldn’t have lived. But that look. You looked like you needed me. Like me dying would do more damage to you than it would to me, and there wasn’t a single cell of my body that could allow me to hurt you like that. I’m here for you, Geralt. No matter what. No matter how you wish to push me aside or yell, or scream at me, whatever. I won’t leave your side again. With this kind of power I hold, I’m sure I have a long, sated life to lead yet.”

Cue the gentle smile, his golden hues studying the other, his expression softened at the other to accompany his words. 

“A life full of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak, and you.” 

Speechless would be rather an understatement to how the Witcher was feeling in the current moment; it was like a page ripped right from one of his childhood stories; one of love and strife, the tale of the enemies turned friends turned lovers. Yet now it wasn’t something he heard at a bedtime passing, snuggling up in blankets full of hopes and dreams, now it was being laid plainly right in front of him.

With him in it.

There was a lofty silence after Jaskier had spoken, Geralt too stricken with the sentiment to form proper words to speak. For even the laconic Witcher could be at a loss for words. Anything he thought to say died upon his palate, staling at the base of his trachea, not even forming the training wheels to climb the incline up his esophagus. 

Though, once he had found words - even after finding and discarding several other sentiments -, he swallowed, clearing his palate as his tongue bounced off it's natural positioning from the roof of his mouth. After all, he now had all the time in the world, for every storm - be it in the summer or winter-, for every change of the season, to watch the leaves change, flourish and to die. For every laugh, cry, and everything in between.

And he had all the time in the world for Jaskier.

“Maybe destiny,” he said, taking painstakingly albeit meticulous and purposeful steps forward until his legs were pressing hard into the perimeter of the table Jaskier was still strapped to - a reminder of the trials Jaskier had yet to do that was somewhere feebly wandering in the back burner of Geralt’s mind, his current plane of consciousness swarmed with nothing but the golden hues bard in front of him -, “ Maybe destiny isn’t so wrong after all.” 

Geralt should be used to this by now, should he not? After all, everything that the bard touched was instantly adorned with an air of fantasy and fiction; even the White Wolf couldn’t escape it. 

Jaskier watched the other think with interest. He could see the cogs turning. Could physically watch as the other thought over what to say, picking at different words and expressions until he found one that suited him. And, although Jaskier yearned to know what was going on in that swirling storm contained beneath pearly locks, he knew more than anyone that anything Geralt was willing to give in a situation like this, or in any situation at all that wasn’t a “Hmm” was more than good enough. Jaskier did raise an eyebrow as he began to walk closer, golden hues flicking over the other’s muscles as they shifted with every step, the approach making the man relax almost instinctively. Geralt was here, besides him. Not across the room, not far away. Not on that damned mountain. But here. 

“No, I think it’s beautifully and wonderfully right.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow and looked up to Geralt, hands tensing beneath the bindings, desperate to reach up and touch the other. Pull him closer, into a kiss, a hug, anything. He just needed the contact, the distance, although minute, set off an ache deep within his chest. 

“Geralt, I-...I know the circumstances right now aren’t great but-...I wouldn’t be anywhere else, to put it poetically. I wouldn’t trade this moment for any miracle cure in the world.” 

It seemed that the White Wolf’s movements never ceased, his form moving to lean forward, over Jaskier’s legs and over the table; stationed to the pivotal anchor of his feet planted firmly against the ground, his torso leaned freely forward, toned arms moved to border either side of the table; digits, calloused and worn from a clenching grip upon a silver sword, from adorning bat-like knuckles, from flesh impacting unto flesh in a finite hit, yet there was no violence in its own accord in attendance as those hands of his gripped the sides of the platform, creating a secondary anchor to allow for Geralt to get as close to Jaskier as he could in this moment. 

Once his chest was a breadth away from Jaskier’s, Geralt stopped, those snowy waterfall tresses cascading down past his shoulders, threatening to break the invisible barrier that was preventing the contact of the two Witchers, hovering just above Jaskier, yet still, they didn’t touch the other.

An orange gaze, fierce alike a lighthouse flickering on in the aftermath of twilight, lingering until the last breaths of dusk, the halo-like a whispering hint of citrine lost within a cavern deep deep within a hollow of secrets and moments long casted away from an impassive consciousness, such a gaze looked at Jaskier then like the other held the world upon his palms, nestled within such careful and adoring digits, delicately protected by hands that knew the power and talent of music.

One of Geralt’s hands raised then, raised from the rigid grip he held upon the table to keep his torso up. His arm outstretched further, his hand finding soft purchase upon Jaskier’s cheek, the pad of his thumb grazing over the smooth area.

People always disliked Witchers. Found them emotionless, devoid of anything left human; that they were nothing more than monster exterminators, worth nothing more than the sword upon their back. Hell, some even claimed Witchers were monsters themselves. Geralt never listened to such nuisance words, of course, writing it off as nothing more than squabbling that wasn’t worth getting into too. A second time, anyway. Yet, Geralt always did believe that the life he led was nothing worth dragging someone else into, especially someone he loved; the chances of losing them were far greater than the cost of bearing the weight of loneliness.

And so, Geralt always roamed and lived life lonely, day in and day out doing what he was trained to do. Well, minus Roach, of course. And life did as it did to Geralt, and he did all he could to push back at it, a never-ending action and reaction force, butting heads.

But then Destiny, damned be, knocked him to his knees.

“Even if I had thought of something else, some other alternative; I’d still be by your side, Jaskier. I wouldn’t trade you, for the world.”  
And again, Geralt stood. And this time, with the one who’d been at his side this whole time. 

Jaskier watched the witcher as he leant over the chair, taking a deep breath and studying the other’s gaze, wrists shifting gently, desperate for contact. His chest rose, too, just to feel the other against him. To be able to touch and know he was there. He watched the other think, studying over him with curious blue optics, but tilted his head into the touches as the hand made gentle contact with his cheek. He visibly shivered a little, tilting his head to push against the other’s grasp. To be closer. The touch sent each nerve on his cheek buzzing, as if alight. But it was a good sort of burn. A comforting warmth rather than a scarring one. 

“It’s bemusing, death I mean. Just how powerful it truly is. How, one second, it can destroy and ruin and take away, but the next, it can give and build and restore. If you’re lucky enough to get on its good side. Something out there must be looking out for us, to grant us such an extraordinary opportunity.”

Jaskier spoke absentmindedly, though his adoring gaze never left the other. The sudden exposition was rather random, even for the man. As someone who’d always been spinning tales and reciting lies in poetry, how he spoke presented no indication of doubt or disbelief in what it was he was describing. Something he’d experienced firsthand, something he knew for sure. Those moments, reciting memories, always became his best performances. 

He watched as the other pulled away, a soft whine leaving his throat before his attention was caught by the creek of the door. 

Vesemir strode in, carrying more herbs and items in his grasp, followed behind by Yennefer and Ciri, who each carried food and water. Jaskier smiled a little at the sight of Ciri, though frowned at her bewildered expression as the emerald gaze flickered between Geralt and Jaskier. The citrine gaze was what had thrown her off, before she hesitantly approached, a hand resting on the bound wrist of the bard. 

“Dandelion! You’re okay!”

The pure relief of seeing him seemed to override any of the confusion she had. She knew vaguely what was going on. After all, she wasn’t stupid and she pieced the dots together rather easily. 

“Yeah, I’m doing alright. You’ve grown since I last saw you.”

“And you’ve changed.” She mumbled with a gentle smile, before gently plucking some grapes from the bunch she was holding. 

“Vesemir said it was important that you ate so I got you some grapes.”

“Why thank you, Princess.”

Jaskier had always been good with Ciri, though it had taken her a while to warm up to him, though after endless nights of singing her into slumber despite the cold shoulder, the Bard’s often infuriating persistence had broken through and they’d grown into good friends. 

He opened his mouth as she leaned up on her tip-toes to prop the red orbs into his mouth, the man sighing gently as his stomach’s dull ache began to settle.   
She continued to feed him until all the grapes were gone, and then gently rose the cup to his tiers to drink from.

Vesemir, all the while, stood at the table, mixing and making the next round of elixirs for the other. He seemed tense; He always hated doing these things. Especially to someone of Jaskier’s age. You’d think it was easier to see an adult in pain over a child but for Vesemir it was backwards. Watching Jaskier beg for mercy and strain with strength and intelligence a child simply didn’t have, knowing all the while it was a fruitless endeavour. Knowing full well the risks... It made him more uncomfortable with it all. Perhaps it was time to stop all of this…

He glanced down, realising he’d let his mind run away from him, pouring the liquids into their respective vials and setting them on the feeder. 

“Oh, Princess, You’d better leave now.”

Jaskier spoke, cheerfully. No fear or fright in his voice, though anyone would know it was still there. No, he could put on a brave face for Ciri. She didn’t need to know what he was about to go through. Yennefer, in turn, moved to hand Geralt a cup of water and a bunch of grapes, giving Jaskier a sideways glance. 

“He’s a good actor…” She grumbled beneath her breath, raising an eyebrow to the witcher besides her. 

Cirilla nodded and looked up to Yennefer, taking her hand as she was led out. 

Once the others had entered, Geralt was back to the rather impassive side of his demeanour, a bit of a smile greeting Cirilla and Yennefer; though a worried gaze was cast upon Vesemir. He watched the exchange between the princess and Jaskier unfold, visage softened, and all the able capable of keeping a half conversation with Yen.

Yet once they had left, a sigh brewed to his lips, citrine infused gaze twinkling with worry as it looked at the elder Witcher. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Vesemir. What’s wrong?” In the middle of their current predicament, there was a whole slew of a list that could be summoned to Geralt’s consciousness, none of them quite good options.

Fuck the lesser evil.

After all, evil was evil.

And this was something Geralt couldn’t quite afford to have go wrong. 

Vesemir glanced at Geralt and gave a slight shrug, eyes gliding down to catch Jaskier’s now citrine gaze, taking a deep breath. “Ah, this shit never gets easier.” He frowned, and Jaskier shifted slightly, before shaking his head. 

“It’s...Okay. I don't hate you or anything, for this. I know it needs to be done, no matter what I say in...in the midst of it all.”

And Vesemir seemed a little better off for that. He took a deep breath and reached out to gently pat at Jaskier’s shoulder, nodding. “I’ll-...keep it in mind.”

He turned to the knobs on the feeder, glancing up to Geralt a little uneasily. 

“Are you ready?”

The elder witcher asked, to both of them. Jaskier took a deep breath, clenched his fists and tensed up, yet nodded. No going back now, this has to happen. 

Geralt’s own golden gaze surveyed the two mans before him. There was no room to say no, so of course, his own answer was yes; indicated by a curt inclination of his head, brows drawing to furrow at the apex of a scrunched nose, his features coiling up, tightening like a gyre that was threatening to snap.

Yet, the White Wolf kept himself together. He had to. Not only for himself but for Jaskier. He needed someone.

Though the Witcher’s head nod was directed at Vesemir, Geralt’s gaze was solely on Jaskier.

He could do this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! Shane here ( over at witchershane ) and tis me, Sonder! We just wanted to thank you guys once more for reading this collab; We really love that you all seem to be enjoying this! We are so excited to share the next chapters with you!   
> Thank you for reading, and as always, leave a comment and say what you think, we always love to read what you guys have to say!
> 
> And, as always -  
> Jaskier, Vesemir, Ciri, Lambert and Eskel primarily written by Sonder  
> Geralt and Yennefer primarily written by (the lovely) Shane

Vesemir nodded and moved to fiddle with the knobs of the feeder.   
“Geralt, his head.”

He gently reminded, watching as the first liquid slipped through the tube and into his bloodstream. 

It took a few moments before Jaskier seized up, eyes closing tightly, breath catching in his throat. And then he was screaming again, back arching almost violently from the plush cushions. He whimpered and tensed his arms with a growl, teeth biting into his lip, drawing blood. He panted and yelled, blood spilling out of his lips from the self-inflicted wound on his tongue.

Vesemir swore beneath his breath before grabbing a book and ripping the spine from it, placing it between his teeth to stop any further injuries.

“Shit-...It’s fine. It’ll heal.” 

Geralt moved swiftly to catch the bard’s head, trying in a fruitless attempt to hold him still.

The human body was funny like that, once it felt pain upon it like an epicentre, it wanted nothing more than for it to be out. Though, upon the metallic smell clinging to the air, the White Wolf let a curse slither under his breath, his visage contorting into worry.

The thought crossed Geralt’s mind then, that Vesemir had to do this, and go through this, with every person: most of them not even making it. Geralt didn’t know how he did it, but all he knew was that he just had to get through it one more time. 

Dandelion strained against the other’s grasp as another liquid was released into his body, letting out a muffled shriek of pain, yanking and thrashing his body around as hard as he could. That was, until the restrains on his right arm snapped in succession, allowing the man to fling his hand and attempt to pull the wires free. 

Vesemir ran around the other side and pinned his arm down, putting all his weight on the wrists to keep them in place. “Fuck-...Come on, kid. Just a little bit longer. You’re almost there.”

Vesemir watched as the changes took place, his chestnut locks slowly losing pigment at the roots, travelling all over his head until the brown shades were replaced with pearly white. He was so close. He was so close!

“Geralt, can you get that last knob?” 

Geralt was reluctant at first, to say the least; he didn’t want to leave the others side. There was some sort of sentry protectiveness about the stance that had the rigid Witcher nearly defensive about it, his fingers - still in a meek attempt to cradle the male’s scalp - twitching.

Yet, seeing the rapture of Jaskier’s hair decolorizing, he knew he didn’t have a choice, and that the window for him to act was closing.

It was something that, although he felt wary to leave, he had to; the quicker he got that knob turned, the quicker Jaskier would be out of pain. The closer he’d be to being alive and okay once more.

And with such in mind, the White Wolf nodded a singular inclination of his skull, moving from his stance as he made his way to were Vesemir was prior, digits swiftly moving to turn the final knob, like the final nail of a coffin.

Closing the door of one life, and opening another one for a new one.

Geralt could only look at the other, worry pressing into his forehead with a few indenting furrowing lines. 

Jaskier wailed and wailed for an hour or two after it, before his body finally took the opportunity to settle down, slipping into a gentle slumber as his form adjusted. He looked surprisingly peaceful there, eyelids gently laid over-exhausted baby blues, body trying to regain the energy it’d lost.   
His lips were relaxed around the book spine, limp and still, unlike the last two hours of constant struggling and screaming. 

Vesemir gently reached up to take the bloodied book spine from the other’s lips, fishing out his tongue to see the damage. A large, curved line where his teeth had broken into the muscle, already working to heal quickly. 

“Jesus, Kid...I’ve never had one bite into their own tongue before…” He looked up to Geralt with an unsteady look before gently turning to gather his things and leave. 

“I’ll send for more food to be brought here for you. He’ll wake in around a day when he’s healed. If you need me, just ask.” 

Geralt mulled over a hum in his chest, gaze moving from Jaskier to Vesemir. Despite not speaking he nodded, at least to indicate some sort of response to him. But, words weren’t coming to his palate then, nothing that wouldn’t be garble of worry over the bard upon the table.

Fist clenched at his side, the Witcher’s free hand was still cradling Jaskier’s skull, the pad of his thumb gently sifting through the tresses that had fallen sidelong along the side of his head, like an anchor for him.

A whole day? Not that Geralt had a problem with staying for such a time, he’d do anything to ensure the other’s safety, but there was a lot that could go wrong within that time. Overthinking, surely, but what else could the laconic Witcher do besides think?

Brows drew together, creasing the bone at the apex of his nose, a frown plucking downwards at his lips. He’d stay here every second to ensure the other woke up. Even if it was less than a day. Or even more.

Geralt wasn’t going to leave his side. 

Vesemir gently offered a slight smile, nodding gently. 

“Try not to look so gloomy. It’s over now. I’ve never had anyone pass from here.”

Then he swiftly disappeared out of the doors, off to retrieve food for the other.

Jaskier would wake at daybreak the next day, a little under 23 hours later. His eyes fluttered open, dark pupils narrowing to adjust to the light of his surroundings. He took a sharp breath, taking a moment to collect his thoughts as he fully awoke. His whole body felt different. His skin was hypersensitive and could feel even the soft draft of air through the window as it swirled around his bound frame and flickered the candlelight. The warm orange hues of the sunrise outside offering a comforting grip on his thoughts. He was alive. 

Surely no heaven or hell could replicate such natural beauty. 

He twisted his wrists in the bindings, finding one was free and looking over in surprise. He must’ve broken it in his struggling, though the thought was briefly shoved aside for the promise of freedom, and the ache in his limbs from the lack of movement. 

Jaskier rose his arm and undid the other binding on his wrist, a groan leaving his lips as he twisted his body to the side to reach. Once he was free on his wrists, he sat up and made to reach for the bindings, wincing gently. The wound on his side was still healing, and yet after everything that had happened, Jaskier had forgotten all about it. 

And the entire time, Geralt didn’t move, not a single inch. Well, minus the feverish pacing of the Witcher in the room, a flashing golden gaze never leaving the other; how could it? He was worried sick about the bard, and all he wanted to do was see him awake again.

Funny, how the times have changed, wasn’t it?

Yet, when he heard the other stir - much like the first time - Geralt moved to find the other’s attention, to let Jaskier know he’d been there the whole time.

“Jaskier.” Once again, the bard’s name was upon his lips like a symphony, notes that were only played for Jaskier and no one else. A sweet melody, concocted of memories twinged with lute strings and swords, monsters and ballads.

And it was a tune Geralt could never get enough of.

“You’re awake.”

And with his words, he smiled, a relieving exhale huffing through the convivial barricade alike a dragon’s protective breath. 

Jaskier’s head tilted to land his gaze on the other, the citrine gaze softening with relief as he saw the other. 

“Oh, Geralt-...”

The words were breathed out, moving to reach up for the other, ankles still bound to the bed, though he didn’t seem to care. He just needed to hold the other, after everything.

“Geralt, everything is so weird, but you’re here. You’re still here. Thank you...” 

The Witcher moved, closing the distance between the pair as he approached the table. “Of course I’m still here. Did you think me mad as someone who would just up and leave?” He tilted his head as gravelly words were spoken, a hand raising as he flicked a few alabaster strands from Jaskier’s visage.

“Seeing you awake, I should be the one thanking you for being,” a pause, a grumbling ghost of a laugh brewing in his chest, “For being strong. The odds of the trials are never good.”

He retracted his hand, golden gaze situated on Jaskier.

“And yet, here we are.” 

“No, no. I’m just relieved, Geralt...I really did not want to wake alone.”  
Jaskier gently grasped at his shirt, desperate for touch. He’d been denied it for too long. 

“So...So they’re over? That’s it?”

He asked hopefully, amber hues shining in the dim light. 

“There’s nothing else to go through? I’m…” His eyes flicked up to the pearl locks that had flopped on his forehead before the golden eyes jumped back into the other’s watching gaze. 

“Do I have the eyes too? I feel really different but-...Not how I’d expected.” 

“Different isn’t always a bad thing.” Geralt replied at first, that hand of his lingering near Jaskier’s visage. “But yes, you have the eyes as well.” 

A hum sounded in his throat, deep and metallic as his register usually was - it seems the Witcher was dissolving back to his regular nature, now that Jaskier was at least safe from the assassin - the sound a long-winded pace of rumbling thunder.

“How are your senses? Everything else?” Though Geralt knew most of the answers to this, he wanted to see it from Jaskier’s point of view. It has been years of course, since he himself had gone through the trials, and even his youth seemed nowhere nigh to the current moment. 

“No, not at all.”

Jaskier stared up at the other, before frowning. The assassin. Everything. Of course. A hand snaked to his left side, where he had taken the hit, calloused fingertips gently brushing against the skin as his hands raised his blood-stained undershirt. A sharp inhale was taken as his eyes settled on the wound, jagged scars all branching off like individual lightning strikes from the epicentre of the blast. It was healing nicely, though the scars were deep and all too visible for the Bard’s liking. 

Jaskier just thought for a long moment in silence, before looking up to Geralt once more, then turning to try and free himself of the last restraint around his ankle. “I need to get up. Walk around.”

Get out of this goddamn room. 

Geralt followed the other’s gaze, two pairs of orange hues landing upon the wound. A thrum sounded from the base of his trachea, a frown gently tugging at his lips; not for the wound itself, but rather for the reaction seeming to be roused from Jaskier.  
Though, and thankfully, Jaskier’s request to get up swirled in the air, the elder Witcher giving a singular curt nod, form moving to step back a few feet. His knees bent a bit as his torso stayed straight, arms reaching out as he made swift work of the restraint.

“Be careful, getting up might not be like waking from slumber.” The warning was spoken as the last clasp swung free from Jaskier’s ankle, Geralt using his height to his advantage as he looked up at the other, making sure Jaskier knew; Geralt was just, looking out for him.

Brows raised. “I could always help you for now, too. We wouldn’t want you to sustain any more injuries for the time being.” And although Geralt was rather serious about his words, there was a teasing smirk plucking at the edges of his lips; his attempt at trying to lighten the air, which had grown rather tense over the last couple of days, staling the Witcher’s palate and drying his throat. 

Dandelion took in a sharp breath, watching the other anxiously as he moved down to free his ankle. He hadn’t really been listening to the other’s words. By the time Geralt had spoken, his gaze had risen to the door, and freedom had filled his thoughts. A nice walk, a breath of fresh air. Ah, to get his fingers around a quill and to vent everything that had happened into his little leather book.

His gaze fell back to the other slowly with an absentminded “Hmm?”, looking at the other with a puzzled expression. Though his leg was already curling back towards him, cracking from the lack of moment recently. He swung his legs over the side of the chair, a wave of nausea hit him from the sudden movements. Geralt’s next words he had heard, and he offered the other a scoff.

“You say that like I am some newly birthed fawn yet to take its first steps. I have been walking this earth for 40 years.” 

Upon hearing the other’s words, Geralt heaved the sigh that had been brewing in his chest. “Fine then, take a step. I’d love to see it.” His head tilted a few degrees to the side, an arm raising as a forearm extended, fingers fluttering in the air.

“You forget you’re not entirely human now, Jaskier. But if you insist,” a beating pause, the Witcher brandishing a half pursed smile, all tight-lipped towards the bard, “then be my guest.” 

Jaskier huffed at the other’s tone, hands grasping the sides of the chair as he made to stand. His legs felt numb, and it was barely a second before one of them bucked beneath his weight. He was heavier than before, after all. The trails had given him a fair coating of toned witcher muscle he wasn’t quite used to yet. 

“Oh, bollocks-” Jaskier hissed, holding himself up with his arms, moving to slide back on the chair before going to try again, determined to do this. 

Expecting the other to stumble a bit, Geralt was on the ready to move, standing to grab Jaskier; a hand landed to the bard’s waist, the other free-form in the air, wavering near Jaskier’s other side lest he needed the extra help.

“Not so confident now, are we?” Geralt looked at Jaskier with raised brows, though there still lacked a scolding tone to his voice; if anything it was more so ‘I told you so’ above anything else.

“Now, let’s take it easy, hm?” Geralt added after a moment’s pause, his words cushioned by a drawling hum, sharpening in his metallic register alike a sharpening sword. 

Jaskier growled a little, a noise that was incredibly foreign to the male. Growling was Geralt’s thing, it always had been, but in that second it was the only answer he could think to give to the other’s ‘told you so’ tone. 

“I can get it. I can.” The bard reached out for the other’s arms nevertheless, needing the support. He took a shaky step, arm gripping the other’s toned forearm for dear life. 

“Three more steps and I won’t even need you-...You’ll see.” 

Silence answered Jaskier at first, Geralt not wanting to make the situation worse; after all, the burst of angry stamina from the bard was to be expected, but given the fact he had woken up not nigh an hour ago: his energy would deplete at an alarming rate. It was all about balance. Always about balance.  
“Let’s see said steps then.” He replied instead, yet the White Wolf made no indication he was going to move from the other, the hand against Jaskier’s waist tight, gripping the area. Whether it was as an anchor or protectively, well:

Time would tell. 

He took a deep breath and nodded, moving to take another step, a shaky breath leaving him. Then another. They were unsteady, and it was clear Geralt wouldn’t be leaving his side anytime soon. His legs wobbled with the weight he was putting upon them, the dependency Jaskier had on Geralt was too much. Too much for his liking. 

“Gah-! Fuck this...” Jaskier whined, childishly, as he realised he wouldn’t be walking properly any time soon. Without aid, at least. 

“You’re doing fine. Keep going.” As much as Geralt wanted to help Jaskier, to let him lay down - or hell, for Geralt to carry him -, so he could rest, Geralt also knew pushing him just a little bit would be better in the long run; especially since it had been a few days since Jaskier had seen the outsides of the room.

“One foot in front of the other, just as you’re doing. We have all the time in the world.” He hummed the usual monotone register of his voice a bit encouraging this time, trying to cushion the bard, just as his hands were doing. 

He glanced up to the other for a moment, unsure, before he leant against the other and took a few more steps, a hand grasped around the wrist holding his waist for support. 

“This is useless-...I’m never going to walk again! I’ll have to play taverns from a chair!” Forever the dramatic one. 

Geralt scoffed, the sound rousing from the nostrils flaring upon his visage. “Don’t be like that Jaskier. Your limbs just need to get used to, being used again. You’ll be fine.” An exasperated sigh brew to the Witcher’s lips, his free hand raising as they neared the door, adding additional support for the bard.

“Come on, don’t you want to see Roach? Ciri and the others?” Always a bargainer, trying to at least shed a silver-lining for Jaskier.  
Besides, Geralt knew how much they all meant to the other; it was like extending an olive branch, though Geralt merely wished to soothe the other, quell his worries. 

“I do. I do...I really do.”

Jaskier nodded, reaching out for the other’s hand as it was offered, using it to gain some more support. 

“How far is it-...?” He muttered, glancing up at the other for reassurance. One foot before the other. Left, right, left, right. He could get this. He will get this. 

“Once we get out of this door, it shouldn’t be far. I can have someone bring Roach as well, sees as she was posted in the outskirts of here when we brought you in.” Geralt spoke with a grumbling thoughtful hum, the thrum forever tickling the back of his throat adding gravel to his words.

“Then we should get you somewhere to rest. I’ll have Vesemir speak to you about everything as well.” 

The bard nodded, taking a shaky breath. Towards the door. One step, two-step. Three steps and he was there.

“Can we feed Roach? Have-...have you been taking care of her too?” Jaskier took a sharp breath and kept walking with the other’s aid. A shaking hand reached out to grasp the door handle and gently pull it back, leaning back into the other once more. 

“Have you been taking care of yourself too? You know Vesemir will tell me, so there’s no point in lying.” 

A pause, Geralt gently shaking his head, another scoff coming to fruition against smirking tiers. “Roach has been Ciri’s duty. To say I haven’t left your side since we arrived is nothing but the truth.”

Geralt looked at the other, the hand upon his waist still gripping Jaskier in a firm grasp, holding up the bard’s upper half. Though, despite Jaskier’s questions, Geralt actively avoided still the answering of the one regarding him. 

“But you’ve been eating?” Jaskier grumbled with a dark scowl, frowning at him. 

“You have been eating, haven’t you?” A quick glance to the other’s stomach to see if he could spy any changes. He’d stopped walking now they were in the hallway, just outside the door. 

The White Wolf’s own footsteps slowed and ceased as the other did, his gaze lingering to the bard. “Vesemir has brought me food, yes.” Though, such still wasn’t entirely a directed answer to the question.

“I’m fine, Jaskier.” Said, as if such a statement would comfort Jaskier; if anything, the back of Geralt’s mind thought, it would probably make him worry more. 

And yet, Geralt was here to help Jaskier, not the other way around.

“How are your legs?” 

He looked the other over sceptically, not quite believing Geralt’s attempt at reassuring him was anything more than that. Though he sighed and nodded. He’d ask Vesemir later. 

“They’re a little-...Numb but I’m alright.” He grumbled, looking down at them. “I-...Can we sit down somewhere? Is there...A kitchen or something? I’m really hungry…” He muttered with a shaky laugh, golden hues studying the other. 

Glancing down at Jaskier’s legs - though it wasn’t like his injuries were external. At least, not there anyway - Geralt nodded. Brows furrowed at the apex of his nose, an affirmative sound huffing at his lips. 

“Of course. Do you want me to carry you the rest of the way? We should find Vesemir first, that would be the best idea.” He hummed as he spoke, the trajectory of sight lifting, moving to study their surroundings; not that the While Wolf needed to that much, but he was confirming it was only them in the space for now. 

“No, No. I think I’ve almost got it. Just…-”  
He moved away a little, taking the hand from his hip and moving it to his side, interlocking his hand with the others and using it for support. 

“-...Just don’t let go. I can walk it…” 

Geralt was bewildered for a moment as Jaskier spoke, the hand moving to move Geralt’s own. Yet, when he felt the other’s fingers within his, he understood. And Geralt himself made no movement to adjust or change anything in that moment.

If anything, he gave Jaskier’s fingers a light-hearted squeeze, a smile softly brewing to his lips.

“I’m not letting go any time soon Jaskier,” a pause, his citrine infused gaze strong upon the other suddenly, “I promise.” 

Jaskier swayed for a moment before taking shaky steps forward, still using the other for support.

“Where would Vesemir be?” The male looked up at the other, dragging in a shaky breath as he continued to walk, allowing his eyes to drift to study the dull surroundings. 

As if on cue, Vesemir rounded the corner down the hallway, two plates of food in either hand. He stilled as he saw the other two, before approaching. “Up on your feet already? That’s always a good sign.” 

Geralt gave a grunting huff, brows raising. “Sign of stubbornness, more like it. But he needed to get off that damned table.” His gaze swept back to Jaskier, his grip still supporting him, fingers careful to be - while secure - not painful for Jaskier.

Even with his newfound heightened everything, the last thing Geralt wanted to do was hurt him.

He had done that plenty for a lifetime.

Looking back at the elder Witcher, Geralt’s skull inclined towards the plates,   
“What’s on the menu tonight? Anything good?” 

“Turkey legs and all the trimmings. Plenty of vegetables. Yennefer and Ciri insisted on it, though it’s all made of magic...doubt it’ll take as good as the real thing.”

Vesemir glanced over at Jaskier, who was breathing in the wonderful scent with new-found hunger, eyes swirling, almost feral at the scent. A proper meal. He can’t remember the last time he’d eaten something so delicious. 

Vesemir laughed at the sight, causing Jaskier to blink in surprise. “Come on, you can at least wait until we’ve gotten to the table, hmm? I was going to bring them to you but since you’re already up and moving I figure you can walk and eat with the rest of us.”

And so he turned on his heel to continue to walk, Jaskier following with Geralt’s help, eyes swirling with want. 

He really was starving. 

Amusement painted Geralt’s own visage, the edges of his lips curling a bit more upward, his gaze still wandering over to the other, a warm feeling swelling in his chest; this congealing storm of something,

Well, nice.

And Geralt wanted to do everything he could to protect that.

To protect Jaskier.

“You might want to close your mouth, lest you wish to dine on flies,” he snorted a laugh, skull shaking only lightly. 

Jaskier glanced up at the teasing, raising an eyebrow as he was drawn from his thoughts of warm turkey and vegetables saying his hunger. 

“Hmm? Sorry, What?” He frowned that the other’s snort before glancing back forward, a soft blush dusting his cheeks. 

Looking at the other’s matching amber waved hues, Geralt’s lips broke into a fully fleshed smile, his head giving a few more shakes. “We’re almost there. 

Then you can eat whatever you want.” 

Within reason, of course. Geralt didn’t wish for the other to make himself sick, especially given how many days it’s been.

Though, of course, Geralt couldn’t blame him. 

“Oh, that’s good.” Jaskier nodded at his words, tilting his head gently to peek around the doorframe as they neared it. 

Inside, Vesemir was just seating himself on a stool at the end of the table, besides where Lambert and Yennefer sat either side. Next to Yen was Ciri and next to Eskel was Lambert.

Jaskier shuffled closer to Geralt as they turned to look at the newest addition to the witcher family, feeling a little uncomfortable with the attention in this context. “There’s the survivor! First of Vesemir’s lab rats to live in a while! 

Welcome to the club!”

Lambert spoke, to which Eskel elbowed him rather hard in the side to demand his silence. Jaskier just gave a weak smile and glanced up to Geralt nervously. 

A grimace came to Geralt’s lips then, displeasure creasing his brow. A sigh withered to his lips then, eyes closing in a momentary interlude of composure recollection.

A swear slid from under his lips. Normally, he was used to Lambert’s quips and gritty humour, but given the circumstances that had occurred: it was a rather stale take.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Geralt spoke lowly under his breath, addressing Jaskier, hues opening once again; the orange colour darkened, a smouldering bronze, landing upon the other Witchers.

“Play nice Lambert,” Geralt spoke up this time, steps resuming mobility as he brought Jaskier to a free seat, gently easing him into it; all the while, giving a warning glare of daggers towards Lambert. 

Jaskier nodded and moved to continue walking to the table, truly breaking away from Geralt when he was close enough to catch the table, moving to sit besides Ciri as opposed to Eskel. He’s still unsure about the other witchers.  
Eskel glanced up quietly as he sat before offering a nod. “Good to finally meet you, Jullian. Yennefer and Ciri have...Said a lot about you.”

“Good things, I hope...And Jaskier. Jaskier is fine.” Jaskier sat, fingers itching beneath the table to get at the food and devour it with haste. But it would be rude, so he held himself back for now. The last thing he wants to do is piss off more witchers. One grumpy one is enough. 

Eskel just nodded and looked back down to his plate with a hum. 

Once Jaskier was situated in his seat, Geralt gently nudged it with his hip, pushing it a bit further towards the table. He gave Jaskiers’ shoulder a comforting pat before he too moved, taking the free seat besides Eskel.

Even despite the bit of distance between himself and Jaskier now, Geralt kept a close eye upon Jaskier, worry still creasing his brows.

“Well, everyone is here now, what are we waiting for?” He spoke up, head craning as he turned to eye Vesemir at the head of the table. 

Vesemir nodded in agreement with Geralt’s words. “Yes, yes. No sense in waiting for it to grow cold. Eat up, by all means.”

Jaskier didn’t need much more instruction. He began to eat hungrily, though made sure to pace himself. Deciding to eat rather than indulge in the idle chatter and conversations between the others around him. He was absolutely starving, and every now and again, when he would find his plate growing empty, Yennefer would glance over and it would be full once more.

They would continue like this deep into the night, tales of contracts shared between the brothers now extended to Ciri and Yennefer, who quickly decided that, as Eskel and Lambert divulged in one more tankard of alcohol, Ciri should not be here, and led them to bed. Jaskier enjoyed listening to the tales, eyes shining with excitement every time they turned to him to recount one of his and Geralt’s many escapades and recounted them with glee. And this would continue until Jaskier found himself yawning, plate pushed aside and emptied for the fourth time, glancing up to Geralt with an exhausted gaze.

“Looks like he’s just about ready for bed,” Vesemir spoke with a grin at the other’s childlike disposition.


End file.
